


Comtéhawke

by 27dragons



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Captain Bucky Barnes, Curse Breaking, Curses, M/M, Magic, Swordfighting, Thief Clint Barton, alternate universe - Ladyhawke, endgame bucky/clint/tony if you squint, except of course most of the names are not remotely french-sounding, heir Tony Stark, vaguely set in France
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27809404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/27dragons/pseuds/27dragons
Summary: Co-written by tisfan. This note will be removed when tisfan is able to accept the co-authorship. See end note for more information.Clint Barton is awaiting execution for his crimes of thievery. No one has ever escaped the dungeons of Aquila, but he's not about to let that stop him. His bid for freedom is nearly cut short when aid arrives in the form of the fearsome Captain Barnes, who decides to take Clint with him on his journey. The trip is plagued with strange happenings: a bloodthirsty wolf, a mysterious and beautiful young man who seemingly appears out of nowhere, and a terrible curse that very well might take them all straight to Hell itself, or worse -- back to Aquila.(If you've seen the movieLadyhawke, this is that, but with Marvel characters and a few tweaks and some additional background thrown in for good measure.)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark
Comments: 162
Kudos: 207





	1. Flight of the Hawk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feignedsobriquet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feignedsobriquet/gifts).



Brock Rumlow, Captain of the Bishop’s personal guards, was a charming, pleasant sort of man when things were going his way. He had a roguish smile and enough courtly manners that he had smarmed his way from a lowly horseboy all the way to Captain of the Church militia. Although the last bit of his meteoric rise was more being in the right place at the wrong time; the wrong time for the previous Captain, that is to say. He was a fair soldier, that much was true. But he was also a snake, and a conniver, and fanatically loyal to the bishop.

These last few traits explained how he’d gotten his position, and the first few explained how he kept it. 

Today, his legendary charm was nowhere to be found.

Overseeing the weekly executions was not one of his favorite tasks, and there had been delays and disasters too many to count. A whole convent of nuns had arrived just as the floor dropped under the first set of neckbreaks, and the Mother Superior had nearly fainted. Several of the younger nuns wept and begged for mercy, and getting those idiots out of the square before the next three pending dead men were dragged out had taken all of Rumlow’s remaining patience. He was not allowed to strike a member of the clergy, and one of the nuns had _bitten_ him. Bitch. 

Holy bitch, but bitch nonetheless.

“Get the next,” he grumbled to the prison’s warden. “Bring out that little bastard, Hawkeye. He’s specifically on the list for today, and we’re already behind. There aren’t enough gallows to hang all these miscreants, so we’re going to have to work late today.”

“Yes, Cap’n,” the warden groveled, so pathetic that Rumlow was tempted to put a boot to the man’s backside as he scuttled away. But that would only make him limp and move even _slower_ , if such a thing were possible.

One of the guards returned soon enough with a brace of prisoners pulled roughly along behind him. He kicked and shoved and shouted, chivvying them up the steps to the gallows platform.

Rumlow eyed the door to the dungeon expectantly, but no one else emerged with the third prisoner. The Hawkeye. Pretentious name, that; the Hawkeye was nothing more than a common cutpurse, having earned the name for nothing more than an uncanny ability to spot valuables from afar. What the peasant had done to earn the bishop’s especial ire, Rumlow had no idea.

He didn’t particularly care to know. The Hawkeye -- Barton, according to the prison records -- wasn’t an actual danger, which was the extent of Rumlow’s need to know. It wasn’t healthy to give too much thought to the bishop’s mental workings. Witness Captain Pierce, who’d died for asking one too many questions and offering one too few “Yes, your Eminence”s.

He glanced up at the sun. The bells would ring to end the services in less than an hour. “If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself,” he spat. The warden would be lucky to have his head by the end of the day, much less his position. He drew his sword; marching down into the prison.

Gods, it stank in here, which was one of the reasons Rumlow tended to watch the gallows rather than escort prisoners. The other one was that he was one of the more hated men in the guard, and the prisoners would throw things at him, spit and try to grab him in the narrow aisles. There would be more than one pick thief missing fingers if they tried to fuck with him today.

“This is the cell,” the warden's assistant said, cowering.

“Wrong place,” Rumlow spat. “I’m looking for Clinton Barton, the one they call Hawkeye. He’s got a special appointment at the gates of hell.”

“The Hawkeye, you say?” cackled one of the prisoners in the cell. “He flew away!”

“The hell you say,” Rumlow said, slapping the man across the face with the flat of his blade. “Where _is_ he?”

“The hawk and the dove, they all fly above!” the prisoner said, giggling like the madman he probably was. “His head would be rent, so he went through the vent!”

Rumlow took his eyes off the madman with some reluctance to look up. The prison roof was almost thirty feet above his head, a precarious climb up rusted iron bars, over the poinards at the top, and possibly, a desperate crawl across the water pipes to get to the single air and smoke vent.

“Impossible,” Rumlow said. “He’d have to dislocate both shoulders, _after_ making that climb. No one could possibly--” He bit off the rest of the sentence. Whatever had happened, Barton wasn't in the cell.

The bishop was going to be very angry.

The problem now was making sure he was angry with the right person. “Take this one instead,” he said, indicating the madman. They couldn’t have that man in the prison, rousing the hopes and fears of the rest of the prisoners. Hope was a dangerous thing, like wildfire. “And you and I--” He gave his toothiest smile to the warden, who had finally caught up. “-- are going to explain this little situation to the bishop.”

The warden’s sudden pallor was gratifying. And well-earned. The fool would be lucky to find himself back in these dungeons as a prisoner, by day’s end. If he was unlucky, well...

The loud _thunk_ of the gallows floor giving way was audible even from down here.

A half hour remained of the church service, but there was no help for it. The bells that ended mass and the bells that sounded the alarm were the same bells.

Rumlow had the doors to the church unbarred, pushing in, sweaty and in his uniform, the warden at his heels like the cowardly dog he was.

The service stopped as the entire congregation inhaled as one. 

The bishop was a tall, severe-looking man with cheekbones sharp enough to cut and eyes as blue and pitiless as the winter sky. His robes were richly decorated, heavy fabrics and expensive lace. The mitre, perched on his fluffy hair, was at least as heavy as a crown. Rumlow had handed it to him once; he knew he wouldn’t have wanted to wear it. His own war helm wasn’t that heavy. 

It was hard not to notice the difference between the bishop and his congregation. These were the well-to-do of the city, for the most part, and even they were thinner, hungrier, than the man of God. They would, the bishop constantly reassured them, find their reward in Heaven.

But here on earth, the bishop’s expenses were staggering.

“Sound the alarm,” Rumlow ordered. Every minute counted. If they could catch the Hawkeye before he got outside the city, the dungeons’ reputation would be secure. 

Rumlow would be safe. 

The warden was probably still fucked, but that was a minor loss.

“What is the meaning of this interruption of our holy rite?” the bishop demanded.

The congregation nearest Rumlow and the warden shuffled back away from them even further, wanting no chance of being mistaken for being in league with someone who’d earned the bishop’s ire.

“Matter of state, your Grace,” Rumlow said, giving the bishop a heavy nod. He considered putting in the request that the bishop take it up with God, and let Rumlow do his job here on the mortal coil. Not likely to keep him in good standing. He listened as the bells rang, summoning his men from the watchtowers and the practice yards. Within an hour, he would have a force to be reckoned with and they would tear the city apart until they found one miserable little thief. 

He marched up to the bishop, bent his head and kissed the ring; heavy gold, chased with an emerald the size of an olive. Paid for by the good parishioners for God’s blessings.

Not that God had been generous these last few years. Plague followed by drought, followed by listless crops. If it wasn’t sacrilegious to consider, Rumlow might have thought the bishop out of favor with God.

With that last gesture, Rumlow indicated the warden. “He’ll explain, while I fix the problem, your Grace.”

“Captain,” the warden hissed, eyes wide with terror. “Surely, you do not mean-- I am unworthy of speaking to his Grace directly.”

 _Yes, you are_ , Rumlow thought. “Courage, piety, and obedience.” In that order. “Answer his questions. Or answer to me.”

Which was a hollow threat, really. There was nothing Rumlow could do to the man that the bishop could not reduce to a mere slap on the wrist. Not that the bishop was often inclined to such mercy.

The warden was shaking as he turned toward the bishop, only halfway, not daring to look directly at the man. “I am at your Grace’s service, always,” he fawned.

The bishop’s eyes were narrowed dangerously. “Captain,” he said smoothly, “I expect this matter, whatever it is, to be resolved. _Quickly_.”

“As you say, your Grace,” Rumlow said. He did not _run away_ ; that would have been desperately beneath him. He had men to organize, a search to get underway, alerts sent to all the major roads and guard houses across the countryside, if, God help him, the thief got outside the walls.

He left the warden to his fate.

* * *

“Don’t look down,” Clint muttered under his breath. “Don’t look down. Don’t look down.” Climbing was the easiest thing in the world, as long as he didn’t look down.

And the best way out was up. His shoulders still ached from squeezing through that ventilation shaft, but he was reasonably certain that it hurt less than hanging.

The roofs were in somewhat better repair than the rest of the city; honestly, Aquila’s streets had holes in them wide enough to swallow a wagon entirely. But some of the slates were not as firm attached as they needed to be, and while looking down could make him dizzy and distracted, not looking at his feet seemed a recipe for disaster.

He scurried down a set of drainage pipes and found himself standing in a largish nest full of very angry pigeons. Well, they might have been delighted pigeons ten minutes previously, but now they were angry, and Clint was missing shoes and socks. His ankles and toes were bared to angry, pecking beaks and sharp talons.

“Oh Lord,” he prayed feverishly, yelping as he danced from foot to foot, trying to shoo away the attackers, “If you will deliver me from this -- ow! -- _rightly_ wrathful flock, I swear I will never steal again!”

A scream from above jerked his head up in surprise.

A hawk, golden in the morning light, swooped down, diving through the pigeons, talons outstretched, scattering them. It screamed again as it rose, preyless, and circled for another run.

Clint did not linger to watch, darting through the nest and up the other side of the roof while the pigeons were distracted. He got a good running start and leaped from the side of the cathedral to some of the less-impressive buildings surrounding it, just as the alarm bells started their call. 

While the church bells often drew worshippers’ eyes skyward -- which could have been problematic for Clint, given that he made a great target against the sky -- the alarm bells were exactly the opposite, making everyone look down and hope desperately not to be noticed. Teams of warhorses raced through the streets, scattering people, and rumbling like thunder. Cries and shouts went up as the bells finished their demands.

The hunt was on.

Clint dashed across the rooftops, leaping from one to the next with the surefooted ease that had served him well in his life. His best bet was to get out of the city walls before they were closed and the walls themselves more heavily manned. Which meant, eventually, he was going to have to come down to the streets, and find a way to cross the moat.

“One problem at a time,” he muttered, slipping and skidding down a particularly poorly-repaired roof. There was shouting coming from the soldiers; he couldn’t make out words, but he could guess well enough.

A wagon with a fat pony pulling it was making its wending way out of the city. The back of the cart was filled with empty canvas bags and some stray straw. A merchant or a farmer, having brought his goods to the market, was making his way home. The sacks would probably cushion the fall, if he could manage the thing smoothly enough not to make too much noise.

Or a distraction-- a distraction would be good. He looked around, hoping for a little bit of divine inspiration.

A loose slate wobbled under his foot, and he scooped it up. It wasn’t the best missile he’d ever thrown, but it wasn’t the worst, either. He hefted it in his hand a few times, then aimed and threw, as hard as he could. It landed in a chicken coop two streets away, rousing them to a frantic wailing and shrieking. Clint darted to the far side of the roof and cupped his hand around his mouth. “There he is!” he called, deepening his voice. “Don’t let him get away!”

Enough people scrambled, either to find the supposed criminal, or to get out of the way, and Clint timed his jump just right to hit the cart about the same time one of the guards nearly crashed into a stall down the road, gathering everyone’s attention. Nice. He dragged one of the bags over his head and rested there to catch his breath.

The farmer’s coinpurse was on his belt, fat and heavy, just below a sturdy-seeming knife in a sheath.

Clint debated with himself for all of a count of five before deftly sliding the knife from its sheath and cutting the coinpurse free. “I know I promised, Lord,” he whispered, glancing up at the spires of the cathedral, “but I also know that You know what a weak-willed person I am.”

Probably best not to linger. If the farmer needed to pay a bribe-- besides, there weren’t many places to hide in the cart if the guards got poke-and-prod-y with their spears. A few more wagons back, he ducked along the side to avoid a guard, and noticed a rack under the wagon, big enough to hold him just above the road, where he probably wouldn’t be noticed. 

He scrambled in, tucking his bare feet up and trying to hide as much of his skin as possible. 

Breathing was a thing he still needed to do, but he swore he held his breath as the wagon passed through the gates. Over the drawbridge, and down the hill from the city. At the first good sized clump of bushes they passed, he rolled out and away.

For a moment, he just looked back at the city.

He was free.

Now he just needed to stay that way.


	2. Persistence of Memory

James Barnes was mounted on a huge black warhorse, looking across the fields toward Aquila. 

He would have said once that he had no instincts about such things, that the ways of God were mysterious and remained unknown to man. But several weeks ago, he’d woken from a dream where Tony’s face spoke to him from the marble of one of the cathedral’s angels and cried, “Come home, come home.”

Well, why not? It wasn’t as if they had anything better to do, aside from live, day to day. Try to survive. To eat and to keep hidden and not to hurt anyone if they could help it.

Why not journey weeks back to Aquila in the middle of the winter, risking discovery at every turn, so that he could look out over the city that had once been his home, that had once held every bit of happiness he had in the world?

Many reasons. But he could not resist the call, and so now he found himself on the hill, looking at the city and wondering why they were here.

Alarm bells rang, causing his horse, Widow, to shy and skitter. Widow knew what the church’s alarm bells could mean. 

But they were miles from the city.

The bishop’s men weren’t after them. Not yet, at any rate.

“Go,” he told the bird on his arm, gesturing to the city. He didn’t speak bird, and the bird couldn't his words. But the hawk knew James’ moods and his needs. Instinct and tragedy bound them together. “See if this bodes well or ill for us.”

The hawk launched from his arm, flew in a wide circle around James, and then climbed into the sky, higher and higher, until it was only a speck even to James’ excellent sight, before it began to wend toward the city.

James waited, patient as a stone. He’d done nothing but wait, these last few years. Wait for a sign. Wait for something that told him the time was right, that-- something could be done, something could change.

His journey home had told him a few things. First, what had changed was that the lands around Aquila were dying, as if the city itself was a poisonous cancer and it was killing the body of the country, slowly. He couldn’t say he was surprised, but it was unpleasant to see the people he’d once protected, had sworn his life to defend, were poor and hungry. 

And that everyone had forgotten; too lost in their own misery, he’d been unrecognized. Unremarkable. One more soldier in a war that everyone was trying to pretend had never happened. No one cried out that he was a man wanted by the church for heresy, no one eyed him with greed when he paid coin at an inn, too eager to sell a service to look if the face that paid them belonged to a wanted man.

Maybe, he thought, someone would recognize him, but they passed days without being stopped, or even questioned.

The people were too downtrodden even to rebel.

The hawk circled a few times and he called out with a sharp cry, raising his arm to summon the bird down. Clenched in those talons were scraps of fabric.

He rubbed the material between finger and thumb. “Prisoner uniform,” he said. He’d seen them often enough in the last few days of his captaincy. “An escapee? Well, my dear, let’s go see that he makes it free of the city.”

For the first time in years, James felt a wild zing of hope through his chest.

* * *

_Seven Years Ago_

These parties were stultifyingly boring. James kept trying to pass the duty off to one of his men, but the bishop insisted that James was the only one with the proper bearing and grace to attend them.

File after file of petty nobles and wealthy merchants, each eager to be introduced to the bishop, to kiss the holy ring, to be able to say, later, that the bishop had smiled at them. Each trailed by their daughters and sons of marriageable age, simpering and empty-headed and dull, dull, _dull_.

“Your Grace,” a deep, affable voice said. Msr. Stane, a merchant who’d come to Aquila to make his fortune. Unlike so many others who had floundered and then left, tail between their legs, Stane had prospered. He wasn’t a particularly religious man, James thought, but he paid his tithe promptly and without complaint, and that was enough for the bishop to like him, as well as the bishop actually liked anyone. “Allow me to introduce my godson, Anthony Stark. He was orphaned last year and came to live with me. He’s only just finished his year of mourning, and I thought it would be nice for him to have an evening out.”

The young man standing at Stane’s side was, indeed, dressed in the dove grey and lavender of half-mourning, but the clothes might have been the finest fashions or a peasant’s smock, for all James noticed: Anthony was _beautiful_. Beyond beautiful, with smooth skin and night-dark hair twisted into unruly curls. Eyes the color of wildflower honey framed by thick, dark lashes long enough to brush his cheeks. Lips that looked like they’d been painted on with burgundy wine, and graceful, long-fingered hands that moved when he spoke, fluttering like a captive bird’s wings.

Anthony exchanged a few dutiful and vapid words with the bishop, his eyes properly downcast, and bent to kiss the proffered ring. As he rose, he glanced up, and his eyes met James’. They widened fractionally, and then those berry-sweet lips curved into a small smile, and Anthony _winked_ at him before turning to obediently follow his godfather from the receiving line.

James was no one’s fool; he did not in the slightest consider the bishop a _friend_. He knew his position as Captain did not protect him. Nor did the purity of his bloodline or the honor of his name. He would _never_ confide anything personal to the man who held so many lives in his hands.

Still, he had to bite his lip not to comment as Anthony walked away. That beauty was like poetry, like art. Something made for the sole purpose of bringing joy to the viewer. To be admired and observed.

It was probably for the best that he was struck dumb by the sight, because he only got the one warning.

Glancing at the Bishop, for the first time, James saw the man behind the cassock, because Aldrich Killian was staring at Anthony, utterly awestruck. In that moment, James saw more naked worship on the man’s face than he’d ever witnessed, even in the most sacred, holy moments inside the cathedral.

Killian was all but knocked off his feet by Anthony’s beauty.

James swallowed hard. 

The bishop was not a good man; certainly not a chaste one. He had his eyes on the pleasures of this world more than the Heavenly rewards promised to the faithful. His vows had been broken before the man was even out of seminary, according to the rumors. Of course, once Killian was bishop, those rumors had been crushed with an iron fist. But James remembered.

James would be lying to himself if he said there was no self-interest in his next actions, only a desire to protect someone who was too innocent and too pure to be sullied by the wickedness in Aquila. He knew that he desired to spend more time with the young man, and was using the excuse to put him on his guard against the bishop.

“Excuse me, your grace,” he said, bowing to kiss the ring.

He made his way through the crowd, never losing sight of his objective. “Goodman Stark,” he said, finally catching up with them. “If-- if your guardian would permit it, out of mourning? Could the Captain of the Church Militia request the honor of your hand for a dance?”

“It’s Comté Stark,” Anthony corrected, but he barely glanced in Stane’s direction as he offered James his hand with a sweet smile. “And I would be delighted.”

Stane’s eyes narrowed, but he was too canny to offend James, who was well-placed to whisper deadly poison into the bishop’s ear. He nodded sharply, and turned to accept a goblet of wine from one of the servers.

“I’ve seen you, you know,” Anthony confided as they took their place on the floor. His eyes sparked with mischief and humor.

“I’m delighted to know I have not become invisible at any point without my knowledge,” James said. “But have you been watching, then, my lord?” That was news to him, as this was the first time he’d seen Anthony, he would have sworn an oath on it.

“It’s only that mourning confinement is so _dreadfully_ dull,” Anthony explained. “Nothing to do but read and pray and watch the faces pass by the windows. Some faces... stand out.”

“Dull enough that you are delighted to be here--” James said, indicating the room. “And enough to give your attention to someone who-- stands out?” He was fishing for compliments, his chest squeezed tight as if he was having problems breathing, just standing so near. The music began the intro and James led them to the line, checking, and taking what would be considered a very high ranking place, only ceded to him by being one of the few people who dared to give the Bishop advice, and whose words were -- sometimes -- listened to.

“I hope you’re a quick study at the dance,” James teased, because they were third in the line and if Anthony was not quick, he might find himself stepping wrongly.

Anthony just smiled. “I find I’m a quick study at most things,” he said. “We shall see if it extends to dancing. But I count upon you not to lead me wrongly.”

The caller set the dance to the tune, and James watched as the first couple made their way down the line. It could kill one’s social status, to be first in the line and to make the wrong step. It would be spoken of, whispered about. Ridiculous. There were so many more important things-- the state of the fields and farms, the needless wars, the rising taxes--

He was called back to attention by the second couple moving down the row, and he looked across to Anthony, almost losing himself in those beautiful eyes. “You trust me, then?” He bowed when it was their turn and offered his hand.

“How could I do otherwise?” Anthony wondered, slipping his hand into James’. “You have a strikingly trustworthy face.”

They turned through the steps of the dance, beat-perfect, each gesture and movement mirrored with such accuracy that James would have thought they’d danced together a million times. Or were joined by some holy fate that let him read Anthony’s mind and movement.

Every time they came close, James could feel the heat of Anthony’s body, smell the man’s cologne, see each curl of his hair, each freckle on his nose. 

Quite honestly, James was amazed they managed to get down the line with their dignity intact, so enraptured with Anthony he could have forgotten every step and never even noticed.

“You dance remarkably well,” James managed when they took their place at the foot of the line.

“And you are every bit as graceful as my previous glimpses have led me to believe,” Anthony said, eyes shining with unvoiced laughter. “Tell me, Captain, do you attend such events often?”

“By will of his Grace, the Bishop,” James said. “He considers my companionship to be essential.” And that James was a subtle and mannerly bodyguard, and certainly observant enough to see a threat coming. “A duty that I had despaired of, until this night.”

Anthony’s eyes dropped, modestly bashful, but only for a moment. “I had planned to beg off the next six months of events,” he confessed. “To tell my godfather that, despite my year being past, the pain is yet too fresh, that I could not bear facing the crush of people, the burden of false merriment. But if I may expect to see you again, then perhaps it is not such a burden, after all.”

That was an unholy temptation. The promise of seeing more of Anthony, and yet-- “You say you trust me,” James said, urgently, as they did the crossover, checking to make sure no one was listening. “You may still wish to make that claim. You have roused the interest of more than one man tonight.”

“And yet, only one has roused mine.” Anthony’s gaze was sharp with challenge, and something more.

It would not be safe to be seen interfering. One dance, and then he would have to allow-- even as they moved up through the line, he could see the Bishop circling the dance floor like a carrion bird, waiting for some poor beast to die. In this case, the beast in question was, undoubtedly, James. 

He met Anthony’s gaze with steady promise. “Tell me where I can find you tomorrow. Somewhere that we might speak of what happens this night.”

“There is an inn that I can see from the top windows, with a hare and a sheaf on its sign,” Tony said. “Behind the inn is a courtyard. I think it belongs to the monastery, but no one ever goes there.”

“I will meet you there tomorrow, then, after the church bells ring the vespers,” James offered.

“The day will seem longer than the entire previous week,” Anthony said, and those golden eyes of his were glowing with promise.

“God willing, I will be there,” James said. “And now, a word in your ear before I return you to your guardian. Do not play clever with the bishop. Put on the stupidest face in your repertoire and for your life, pretend to be fascinated with everything he says.”

Anthony batted his eyelashes at James ridiculously, then smirked at him. “I am no fool,” he said. “I learned, before I even knew how to sit a horse, how to behave around men of power.”

“Bishop Killian is like nothing you have ever encountered before,” James told him. He dared not say more, people would overhear. “Until later, then, Comté Anthony. It’s been my pleasure.” He brought Anthony back to his guardian. “My gratitude for the dance.”

“My thanks, Captain, for teaching me the steps,” Anthony said, his wit and fire suddenly masked by demure dullness. “It is just as well the music ended when it did; I am quite exhausted.”

“Allow me to send you and your guardian a cup of sweet wine,” James offered, and none too soon. The bishop was already closing on them with the determination of a charger. James made his escape before being forced to endure any questions, and directed one of the servants to bring a tray for the bishop and his guests, which would get them fed and watered with the best the party had to offer.

He grabbed a cup of wine and spent the rest of the night in attendance of his duty, watching the nobles party and carry on, keeping an eye out for threats, and if he spent quite a bit of the night with his eyes on Anthony’s face, it was only because the bishop stayed close.

By the time the comté and his guardian departed, James was sure of two things. The first was that the bishop had become enraptured with a pretty face.

The other was-- so had James.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The church bells rang [8 times a day](https://andreacefalo.com/2014/01/29/telling-time-in-the-middle-ages-5-things-you-didnt-know/); vespers is the midafternoon prayer set, before sunset. The time of day varied depending on what time sunset was.


	3. A Toast to Freedom

Clint had been darting from a clump of bushes to a stand of trees to a fallen pile of stones where a wall or building used to stand, terrified that each scurry across open ground would expose him to searching eyes. There were no buildings here to climb, and though he could easily scale a tree, it would be all too easy to track him, amongst the branches, too easy to cut off his escape, too easy to fell the tree and Clint’s life with it.

Clint was not meant for the countryside. He needed walls around him, solid stone walls. He wanted cobblestones under his feet, not dirt and pebbles and sharp bits of wood. The heat of ovens warming the alleyways, not snow that made his toes go numb, despite his stolen boots. People to talk to, steal from, and laugh with.

“And food, Lord,” Clint added, in case God had been busy about other matters and missed Clint’s previous commentary on the subject. “It’s all very well to save me -- and please don’t think I’m not grateful -- but what good is it to keep me from the noose if I’m only going to starve to death, or freeze? I’m sure that, in Your wisdom, You have other, better plans for me than that.”

He wasn’t sure how far he’d come. He could still hear the church bells ringing out the hours, but the cathedral’s church bells could be heard for many miles around the city, all the way out to the mountains, on a clear, quiet day, someone had told him. He’d been traveling for a day and a night and most of another day, but at a creeping pace, burdened with the necessity of staying out of sight of the road.

Still, as the sun reached its zenith, he looked back and realized he could no longer see Aquila’s spires, that they were hidden from view by the rolling hills he’d crossed. He’d done it. He was free.

And better yet, as he turned in a slow circle to observe his surroundings, there was smoke coming from not far away. A farmhouse, perhaps, or -- if he were lucky -- a wayfarer’s inn, with wine to drink and hot food to eat and pockets to relieve of their burdens. He brushed the brambles and twigs from his stolen clothes, checked that the road was clear, and headed in that direction, shoulders square and stride confident.

There was an inn, oh, thank you, God.

A grape trellis covered an out-of-doors eating area, well populated already by a dozen or so men wearing woolen cloaks. There were two firepits, keeping the area warm, and the huge brick oven in the middle was being relieved of a burden of fresh bread. Soup was warming in a cauldron, and another fire held what looked like the remains of spitted deer. 

If it weren’t for his aching feet and freezing fingers, Clint might have thought he’d died and gone to heaven. He could buy a meal and a bed and be warm and get some _rest_. 

“A meal!” he cried, waving to the stout man at the counter. “And a cup of your best!”

Dinner was brought to him promptly, half a loaf of fresh, crusty bread, soup, and two slices of venison, along with a cup of beer that had seen better days, but Clint couldn’t care. The bread was enough to make up for it. He stuffed a large piece of soup-soaked bread into his mouth and chewed with relish.

Heaven, he decided, would have food like this. After days -- or was it weeks? -- in the prisons and the rancid gruel that had been the prisoners’ daily slop, Clint couldn’t even imagine a finer meal. It was gone, it seemed, before he’d even had the chance to savor it all.

Clint dropped one of his hard-earned coins on the table -- _someone_ had earned them, after all, even if it hadn’t been him -- and called to the innkeeper for another cup. “And one for any present who will drink a toast with me,” he called, raising his voice.

“Let’s hear your toast,” someone offered from a nearby table. He didn’t look around, his cloak drawn tight around him against the drafty air. There was one plate on the table, four men having apparently shared between them the same meal that Clint had just devoured. Poor bastards.

Perhaps it was something he could do, to offer them a little hope. “We drink, my friend, to a man who has seen the inside of Aquila’s prisons, and escaped!”

“Then you drink to me,” the man said, “for I have been within those dungeons.” He shifted and turned, but Clint still couldn’t see anything of his face, shrouded by the hood he wore. “I’m grateful for the homage.”

Surely not. Clint would have heard, if anyone else had escaped that hellhole. “A stonemason, perhaps?” he guessed. “A carpenter? An ironmonger? Those, I might believe. But to have been a prisoner, and walked away with your head still on your shoulders? This I do not believe.”

“I didn’t say I was a prisoner,” the man said, pushing back his cloak to reveal the captain’s helm, the golden wings shining in the sun. “I don’t think we’ve met, formally. Captain Rumlow, of the Bishop’s guard. You-- are Clint Barton. And you’re under arrest.”

The others at the table with him threw back their cloaks. Guards. He was surrounded by the bishop’s guards.

“Ah,” he said. “Well. In that case--” He threw what was left of his beer into the nearest man’s face and leapt up, heaving himself onto the top of the grape trellis.

He was good, he really was. An acrobat to rival those of any circus, Clint was lithe, quick, fast on his feet. Flexible. But there was nowhere to go. He dodged and leaped and danced around the swords, and the fact that he was still alive in two minutes was a minor miracle, but eventually, there was nothing left to do.

Rumlow was clapping sarcastically, watching as the guards chased him around like a puppy who’d stolen someone’s shoes.

“Down, now.”

Clint glanced around desperately -- but there was nowhere to go. The trellis wasn’t even close enough to the inn for him to attempt to make the jump and stall them a little longer. And eventually -- soon -- they would either get lucky and hit him, or decide to cut the trellis down. And the innkeeper probably didn’t deserve that. Not if Rumlow was going to win anyway.

Clint picked his way to the edge of the trellis and dropped to the ground.

One of the men grabbed Clint’s arm, rough and cruel, dragging his wrist up between his shoulder blades, and shoved him forward. “Little thief,” he spat. “More trouble than the brat is worth.”

“Yes, absolutely,” Clint agreed. “Not worth even the trouble of sullying your blade. Best to drive me off into the forest to starve.”

The guard holding him pushed him to the next, who shoved him backward, until he was dizzy with it, blows making his head ring, staggering from one to the next while they laughed raucously, calling him names, mocking and cruel. He flailed wildly, and his fist came into contact with-- something.

Rumlow grabbed his shoulder, steadied him. 

And Rumlow's lip was bleeding. Rumlow tugged off his glove and touched the split lip with one finger as if acknowledging the reality of the wound.

Oh, _shit_. It was one thing to evade the guard and make them look like fools, and another thing _entirely_ to raise a hand to them, however accidentally. “I’m so sorry,” Clint babbled. “I didn’t mean to do that, I’m sorry, I’m--”

“Oh, gods, just kill him, he’s pissing me off,” Rumlow said. One of the guards drew a sword while another pinned him against the wall.

It was over, it was all over. He always liked to imagine that in the moment of his death he would meet it coolly, and then he and God could have a personal little talk about how badly this world was not going according to plan. Composing a witty speech. Something. But in the end he just shrieked, “God have mercy on my soul--”

The guard swung--

And then screamed, several inches of a crossbow bolt protruding from his upper arm. He staggered backward and sat heavily on one of the benches.

The man holding the crossbow pivoted on his heel and shot another guard who was not stunned into stillness. That man went down and did not move again.

“Good morning, Rumlow,” the man said, as if all of Clint’s terror was meaningless, and just interrupted a pleasant conversation he was having with the Bishop’s men. “Let him go.”

“Barnes,” Rumlow breathed, sounding utterly flabbergasted. “One of my men told me you’d come back, and I wanted to cut his tongue out for lying. Because I knew you were not that stupid.”

“Barton,” Barnes said, looking at Clint for the first time. The man was cut like a marble statue. “Get the hell out of here.” When Clint just stood there, gaping in shock, he jerked a thumb. “ _Run_!”

Clint’s feet knew what to do even while Clint was still staring. He bolted for the woods nearby, arms flailing ungracefully.

A scream, a _shriek_ sounded above him and he nearly threw himself to the ground, covering his head. The hawk swooped by him so close Clint felt the wind of its wings, and a second later, one of the guards yelled. Clint recovered his balance and kept running.

Just outside the town’s borders, a cluster of the guard’s horses were tied at the hitching post. The one guard there sported another arrow through the forehead. Which meant at least two of these horses were utterly unnecessary to the guards currently fighting it out in the town’s square.

Clint glanced back, but no one was actively chasing him yet. He reached down and took the dead guard’s coinpouch. “It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle,” he told the dead man, “than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.” He bounced the little purse on his palm. “You’re welcome.”

He grabbed for the nearest horse’s reins. He’d never ridden, of course -- he was a city-bred thief -- but how hard could it be?

The horse sidled away from him and tossed its head, jerking the reins loose. 

Okay, so that one didn’t like him. How about this one?

This one shook its head violently and bared its teeth at him and Clint scrambled backwards, because _shit_ those things were terrifying.

“Be that way,” he groused, “you miserable strumpets!” The sound of fighting from the inn was getting louder. Clint decided that it was time to run again.

* * *

James didn’t bother watching the thief flee -- honestly, if it hadn’t made it so much easier for James to find him, he would have called Barton an _idiot_. 

There were a half dozen of the bishop’s guards, not to mention the captain.

Brock Rumlow, once his protege and friend, now stood with a sword raised against him. “Rumlow, look at me, not him--” Rumlow was staring daggers into the back of the running thief, nearly as dark as the glare he turned on James. “It’s good to see you again, old friend. I promised God that mine would be the last face you ever saw.”

The guards were spreading out, trying to flank him. The one with the crossbow, he might be trouble. The others were just going to try to herd him into Rumlow. They wouldn’t want to be accused of stealing Rumlow’s kill, after all.

Idiots.

He lunged to one side, flipping the badly constructed wooden table up and into the crossbowman, knocking him over. Use the terrain, a lesson his old teacher had drilled into him, and it had served him very well. Only fools thought to fight in straight lines and on flat ground.

He crossed blades with one who flanked him, found himself staring at a familiar face. It wasn’t as if the men didn’t know that Rumlow had only been Captain for a few years, that once--

“Gabriel,” he said, holding, rather than forcing the attack. He could have killed the man six times in that thirty seconds, but God help him, he didn’t _want_ to.

“Captain Barnes,” Gabriel said, his features twisting with conflict.

“Captain?” Rumlow roared, charging forward. Before James could do anything to prevent it, Rumlow kicked Gabe in the back, pushing him onto James’s own blade. The man had been a friend, and he choked his life out on James’s sword.

“Bastard,” James spat. 

“Attack, you fools!”

Because Rumlow knew as well as James did that in an equal fight, Rumlow was going down under James' blade. He had no chance. Even with reinforcements, James would like very much to knife his former student.

He fought as a man possessed, his only thoughts on the fight, as if he’d spent days, months, years, imagining every blow, refining his technique, knowing that someday, Rumlow would be within his grasp. Nothing would stop him now-- Sparks flew as steel met steel. He gave ground slowly, grudgingly, but with each step back, there was one fewer attacker left to meet his blows.

“I will kill you,” James promised.

Overhead, the hawk screamed a warning. James jerked his chin to look. There were more guards, on horseback. They clucked their mounts to speed and-- they were chasing the thief.

God damn it.

“Another time, Brock.” He shoved the man directly into the firepit and took advantage of the distraction to retreat, whistling for Widow.

Idiot thief, James thought. Was he going to have to do _everything_ himself?

Barton glanced back and yelped in fear, legs turning into a blur as he sped up, desperate to get away. “No, no, no!’

James leaned over the side as Widow raced forward, happy as always to be running and destroying things. Hoped that Barton’s tunic wasn’t as poorly made as it looked. He grabbed a whole fistful of fabric and yanked, jerking the man up and over his saddlebow with as much grace as a sack of potatoes. “Hold still, damn you.” Ahead of them, more guards. They were closing the gate.

Hah.

As if that was going to do anything.

“Watch your face,” he told the thief as he felt the powerful muscles in Widow’s chest strain, getting ready to make the jump. It was an easy clear; her hooves didn’t even brush the wood as the thief shrieked in terror and hid his face against the horse’s neck.

They thundered off down the road. It would take Rumlow at least a quarter hour or more to organize the pursuit, and he didn’t have a single horse in the caliber of the Widow.

They’d be fine.

He called out to the bird and raised his hand, summoning the hawk to his shoulder, rather than letting Rumlow use the sight of the bird as a marker for James’s position. If Rumlow even knew…

The hawk landed, talons sinking into the leather of James’ armor and letting out a soft trill. Barton had at least stopped squirming, but there was a near-constant thread of whimper coming from the thief’s throat.

“Let us get a lead on them,” James suggested, putting a hand in the middle of Barton’s back, “and then we can stop a moment and get a more comfortable riding position.” More comfortable for Barton, of course. James was perfectly comfortable -- or at least not inconvenienced, unless the thief happened to kick him. Or if Widow decided that the lump on her back was some sort of insect, in which case she would turn and bite him. In either case, everyone would be happier if Barton was riding behind him, upright and balanced.

“Or,” Barton suggested, breathless from having his chest jarred by Widow’s pace, “you could just drop me off. I wouldn’t want to be any trouble.”

“For someone who wishes to avoid trouble,” James said, “you seem to find it easily enough.” 

“The Lord has many lessons to teach me,” Barton said. “Right now, He is teaching me to value my feet and legs, I am certain.”

"You will give up horse riding for Lent, I've no doubt. For now, riding is safer. And I can keep my hands on you."

“Ah,” Barton said, as if that explained everything. “In that case, I hope we may pause before my entire front is covered in bruises.”

Probably true. James allowed himself a smile that the thief probably couldn't see. "What cannot be cured must be endured. Better a bruise or two than a stretched neck."

“I have fallen into the company of philosophers. My mother would be so disappointed.”

James didn't bother to answer that. He'd spoken so seldom to other people in the last few years, he felt as if he'd exhausted his supply of words. When they got well into the woods, he would let the thief remount. Hopefully he wouldn't have to chase him around some more.

He glanced up. There wasn't a lot of time left in the day.


	4. Already a Part of It

The farm where the good Captain had decided they would spend the night was a picture of abject poverty, Clint thought as he hauled a bucket of water from the well to the stable. But then, what wasn’t a picture of poverty, these days (discounting the bishop’s holdings, of course)?

But it was a roof over their heads, of sorts, and straw to sleep in that would keep them warm, so Clint wasn’t complaining.

Well, he wasn’t complaining _much_. His chest and stomach still ached from being thrown across the horse’s back like a sack of potatoes, and he thought he deserved a little grumbling about that.

When Clint got back to the stable with the water, Captain Barnes had shut himself into the one stall. He was an odd one. “Well,” Clint said brightly, “it looks like that’s about all I can do for now, so I think I’ll just--”

"You can tend to my horse," Barnes said. "Brushed, walked out, there's grain in the saddle bags. And fetch some wood for the fire. It will get cold."

The man was already taking his shirt off, so Clint wasn't sure how _he_ was cold. He was thick with muscle, dotted with bruises. The fight obviously had taken its toll on the captain as well.

He stretched and winced.

Clint was reasonably certain the horse would rather bite a chunk out of his shoulder than follow him anywhere, but, well, what choice did he have? “...Right. Tend to the horse. Got it.” He took hold of the creature’s reins and pulled gingerly.

The horse did not budge.

Clint pulled harder, and then leaned all his weight into it. The horse was eyeing him with disdain. “Come on, boy, a handsome strong boy you are,” Clint coaxed. “Don’t you want to have a nice walk? Come on, then-- He’s really very lovely,” Clint called. “What, ah, what’s his name?”

“ _Her_ name is Black Widow,” Barnes said.

Shit. Clint hadn’t even thought to check; the horse was so huge he’d just _assumed_ it was a stallion. “Her. Right. What a lovely... name.”

“Go on, go with him, girl,” Barnes said. “He didn’t mean to insult you.”

“No, of course not,” Clint agreed. He took a tentative step back, and this time the horse glared at him but followed. “You’re still very handsome and strong,” he offered. “Let’s go over here and you can have a drink and some lovely grain and hay.”

Barnes was watching him the entire way, Clint would have sworn, but when he looked back, the man had turned his attention to the hunting hawk, offering a few strips of meat and staring at the bird as if it held answers to unknowable questions. “There’s my light,” Barnes seemed to say. Clint shook his head. He’d learned a little lip-reading, but surely Barnes wasn’t talking to the bird like it was a lover. Must be the bad lighting.

Widow nudged him hard in the back and he almost fell over.

“What? I’m working on it!” he protested, and opened the saddlebags in search of the promised grain. He had no idea how much to give her, so he just scooped a bunch into a convenient bucket. The brush he’d seen before, he knew how that worked. “Let’s have an agreement,” he suggested, “where you don’t kick me when I’m trying to do nice things. That’s a good agreement, don’t you think?” Tentatively, he ran the brush down her side.

Apparently she’d agreed to the truce; at least she didn’t kick him while she was eating. It was nearly dark by the time he’d finished brushing, and if he didn’t get wood for the fire very quickly, he wouldn’t be able to see a thing.

He didn’t see the captain or his bird. Somehow that seemed unfair. Clint was not anybody’s servant.

He scowled at the stall door and stomped off into the woods to look for fallen branches. “Who does he think he is?” he muttered. “Ordering me around like that. Fetch the water, take care of the horse, find the firewood. Why is he even keeping me around, anyway? There is something distinctly funny about this, and it’s not the good kind of funny, either. He _wants_ something from me, he must. That’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Clint looked down at the bundle of sticks cradled in his arms. “Well. I’m not going to _give_ it to him, whatever it is!” He dropped the firewood decisively. “I’m as free as any other man. I’ll just be on my--”

A loud crack echoed through the trees, and Clint froze.

“Captain?”

Captain Barnes did not answer.

More cracking. Footsteps, for sure. An animal, a big one. Or maybe the guards had caught up faster than Barnes had anticipated.

Clint wasn’t sure which would be worse. He looked around, but even his sharp eyes weren’t much good in the dark. “Coulson,” he said, raising his voice a little, “you’d better get out your sword. Can’t be too careful in these dark times.” He took a few steps back toward the shelter of the farm. “Ah, Sharon, you brought your crossbow, excellent. Let’s _all_ of us go back to the barn now. Together. Okay?”

“Okay,” he answered himself, gruffly, and followed it up with a high-pitched, “Okay.”

He got a few steps and the farmer lunged out at him from a tree, a scythe in his emaciated hand. “Got you--” The blade didn’t look particularly well-kept, but the edge would still take Clint’s head right off his shoulders.

He shrieked, jumped out of the way of the first swing. He staggered. Fell. There was no way he was going to be able to get out of the way of the second swing.

Something growled behind Clint, deep and angry, and then the farmer collapsed as something huge and white and snarling leapt on him.

The man screamed, and the scream died in an agonized gurgle as the wolf tore the farmer’s throat out. Clint was paralyzed with fear, unable to move. Then the wolf raised its mighty head, the white jaws red with blood.

“Wolf!” Clint shouted, scrabbling backward like a crab before flailing his way to his feet. The beast was occupied with the farmer for the moment, but the farmer was so thin, the wolf was sure to come after Clint next. “Wolf!” He ran into the barn and banged on the door of the stall. “Captain Barnes! Wolf! There’s a wolf!”

Barnes didn’t answer.

What if the wolf had already killed the Captain?

Shivers ran through Clint’s limbs. His eye fell on Barnes’ crossbow. He snatched it up and scrambled up the rickety ladder into the hayloft. “Wolf, wolf, wolf,” he panted, yanking at the string frantically until it caught. He dropped half the quarrels trying to get one out and load it into its slot. He lifted it, sighting down its length. The farmer had fallen silent, but he could still hear the wolf growling. It only had to come a little closer...

A hand from out of nowhere reached out, pushing the barrel of the crossbow down.

The hand was attached to a man, a man Clint had never seen before. A _beautiful_ man, luminous in the moonlight, with porcelain-smooth skin and wide, dark eyes. He shook his head, lifted a finger to his lips, and climbed down the ladder.

“Wait! Wait, sir,” Clint said, not daring to climb down himself. “Wait, sir, there’s a wolf, a huge wolf, the biggest wolf ever-- it’s already killed a man. Sir!”

“I know,” the man whispered as he disappeared. A moment later, he became visible from Clint's vantage, walking out of the barn into the yard. Where the _wolf was_. He walked right out, showing no fear at all, and reached out a hand toward the wolf, apparently entirely unconcerned about the blood still flecking its muzzle.

Clint swayed, dizzy and sick. He was about to see a second man ripped to pieces--

The wolf bowed its head, letting the man pet it, rub at the wolf’s ears like it was a _pet_ , and then it fell in to walk at his side.

“I must be dreaming-- but I’m awake, I know it, my eyes are open, so I’m not asleep,” Clint said. He blinked a few times, but the scene didn’t change. “Or maybe I’m asleep, dreaming I’m awake, wondering if I’m dreaming--”

That made sense.

Sort of.

It certainly _felt_ like a dream.

“You’re dreaming,” the man agreed with a faint smile, looking up at Clint. His hand was curled in the wolf’s thick fur, and together, man and beast, they turned and walked into the forest.

Clint threw himself down in the straw, trembling and sick. “I did not see what I saw,” he murmured. “I do not believe what I believe.” Fear of the unknown was terrible-- but he was more afraid of _knowing_. Knowing might be even worse. “There are mystical forces at work here, God, and I beg You not to make me a part of them.”

But even as he prayed for deliverance, he was sickeningly certain that it was already too late.

* * *

The captain didn’t look at the farmer’s body for very long. He gave two silver coins -- minted in the Turkish empire, if Clint knew anything about money, and he did, in fact, know a lot about money -- to the first peasant they passed with instructions to go back and bury the body. For a soldier, the captain seemed more than a little uneasy about the death.

But then, who wanted to get eaten by a wolf?

Certainly Clint didn’t think it was the best way to go.

He was yawning, however, not long after they left the gravedigger behind. He hadn’t been able to sleep after that gruesome scene, and then the captain had rousted him immediately after dawn.

Just past luncheon now, and the weather was miserable.

“We could just stop,” Clint pointed out. “Find shelter. The rain can’t last forever.”

“Perhaps that’s not a bad idea,” Captain Barnes said. He held up one arm and called for the hawk, who swooped in and landed. “I think we could all use some rest.”

“Yes,” Clint said eagerly. “I couldn’t sleep a wink last night, after that wolf attacked! I kept wondering - why would he tear out the farmer’s throat, but leave me in peace?”

“Wolves are practical animals,” Barnes said. “Perhaps it saw the farmer was weaker, more frail than you, and decided to put the poor man out of his misery.”

Clint very much doubted that. But the captain just threw Widow’s reins over a branch and settled himself into the hollow of a tree, wholly unconcerned about the possibility of wolves.

Clint felt somewhat frantic, for some reason not wanting Barnes to go to sleep and leave him here alone, with none but the horse to keep watch. “And then there was the man!” he blurted, though he hadn’t really meant to mention that. Not until he’d entirely made up his mind whether it was a dream.

“Really? What sort of man?”

“He was beautiful, almost delicate, but strong. With eyes that seemed to look right into my soul, but in a good way, kind and caring.” Barnes hadn’t even opened his eyes. Clint gave up trying to interest the man in conversation and lost himself to the memory. “He moved with the grace of flowing water, and his voice was so sweet, I could almost believe it an angel’s.”

“He spoke to you? What did he say?” Barnes was watching him now, leaning forward until the hawk made a squawky complaint about this disturbance of its perch.

“I asked if I was dreaming,” Clint said, “and he said I was. And then after that...” He hesitated. A mysterious man might have been anyone, another traveler, but that the man had calmed the wolf with only a touch? That sounded insane. “I’m not insane,” Clint said aloud. He glared at Barnes as if the captain had accused him of it. “You have to believe me.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Barnes said, settling back into his nook. “I believe in dreams. Tell me, did your mysterious stranger have a name?”

The captain was mocking him, Clint knew it. “He didn’t mention one,” he said, slumping back against his own tree and wrapping his arms around himself. “Why?”

Barnes seemed oddly disappointed. “Well, he sounds like a very appealing and lovely sort, and, being a dream, might decide to wander into my dreams. Wouldn’t it be nice if I could walk up to him, call him by name, and pretend we’d met before? I’ve-- I’ve been waiting for such a man for-- oh, for a very long time now.” Barnes smiled, and it was the first time Clint had seen such an expression on his face, soft and wistful and… somehow nostalgic all at the same time. Like there was, in fact, a heart inside the man. One that was lonely and believed desperately in true love.

“Surely, a man like you could have anyone he wanted,” Clint suggested. Well, perhaps not in Aquila, but the country was wide. At least, that’s what he’d been told. But Barnes was strong and handsome and seemed to have money enough.

“Perhaps,” Barnes said. “Perhaps I don’t want _just anyone_." He leaned back into the hollow of the tree and closed his eyes. "Now, get some rest. The bird will warn us if someone comes.” He tugged his cloak down over his eyes and nose until all that was visible was the very tip of that cleft chin. The bird glared at Clint as if Clint were thinking of disturbing Barnes’s nap.

“Right,” Clint said. “Rest.” He pulled a blanket around his shoulders and closed his eyes. It hadn’t worked last night, but eventually, he would have to sleep again, right?


	5. Return to Aquila

_Five Years Ago_

Tony paced through the monastery courtyard restlessly, wringing his hands.

The garden there was a bit of modern wilderness, overgrown grass and out of control flowering bushes. No one went there, Tony was certain. The benches were crumbling stone and the fountain in the center was dry. They’d been using the place for months now for their secret meetings, leaving letters for each other when they couldn’t meet.

The Vespers had rung more than a half hour before, and there was no sign of the Captain. Obadiah was going to kill him if he were late for supper, with no excuse. Again.

Tony checked the message spots, but there wasn’t anything.

Finally, _finally_ , a dark figure moved from the southern gate, black armor creaking just a little as fresh oiled leather rubbed together. “Tony--”

“Bucky!” Tony raced along the overgrown path to throw himself into Bucky’s arms. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”

Bucky swung Tony around as if he weighed almost nothing, setting him gently back on the ground. “I am sorry for making you wait,” he said. “The people-- there were some objections to the new taxes.” Bucky chewed his lip, looking disturbed. “It’s hard, being sent out against our own people. They’re just _hungry_ , it’s not a sin.”

Tony nodded. “Our priest, back home, Father Yinsen... He wasn’t anything like the bishop. He was kind and forgiving and wanted to _help_ people.” Tony bit his lip; two years in Aquila had taught him how dangerous it was to say anything that might be construed as criticism of the bishop. Bucky would never betray him, of course, but the bishop seemed a little more paranoid with every passing day. Who knew where his spies lurked? “We... we could leave,” he whispered.

“It’s not entirely out of the question,” Bucky said. He sat down on one of the benches, brushing the moss away. “His Grace received another missive from the Pope. I… was not privy to its contents, but I daresay it was not good news. His Grace speaks of… military action that may soon be necessary. Leaving now-- would be considered cowardice and perhaps even treason.” Bucky took Tony’s hand, kissing his knuckles. 

Tony fought down tears. Of course, of _course_ he couldn’t ask Bucky to risk so much, but... “His Grace has invited us to dine tomorrow. Again.” He shuddered a little, remembering the last meal he and Obadiah had shared with the bishop.

“I’m not-- Tony, I would do anything you asked, you know that, right?”

Except all the things he couldn’t do. Like ask for Tony’s hand. Tony already knew what Obadiah thought of that idea, when he’d caught Tony mooning over the handsome Captain. And so everything was kept very quiet and discreet. They could dance together, once, at the parties that both of them were forced to attend. Secret meetings. Stolen kisses. Letters left in books, read, memorized, and burned.

“I know,” Tony agreed. He leaned into Bucky’s strength. “But I don’t know a way to escape this,” he admitted.

Everyone knew that the Bishop had his sights on Tony. Not as a spouse, of course; the Bishop was not allowed to _marry_. Even Killian would not throw away papal support by flagrantly disregarding his vows.

But everyone knew that the Bishop had-- companions. And he wanted Tony among that number.

“It’s possible,” Bucky said. “It’s possible that his Grace may send me to-- negotiate with the Pope. Rome is a long way from here. A very long way. And we’d be… if we went to Rome, we might very well be under papal protection. There is much I could tell his Holiness.”

Tony tapped thoughtfully on his chest, the pendant that hung under his shirt that held a miniature of his mother. “His Grace might send you away,” he said slowly, “to try and get you out of my notice. He watches, every time we meet in public, he... he knows _something_. If he sends you to Rome, then you must travel at once. We’ll arrange a signal -- and I will slip away and meet you on the road.”

“I know a priest,” Bucky offered. “He’s not in favor with the bishop, but he still keeps to the forms. He might be willing to wed us, so you would not be in disgrace for traveling with me.”

Tony couldn’t help a soft laugh. “That may be the worst proposal I have ever heard,” he teased, “and considering the company I am often forced to keep, that is an impressive feat.”

Bucky flushed, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I-- Tony, I-- I can’t even bring myself to think of it, I would be your husband in an instant if I was allowed, but I haven’t been able to talk about you, to even-- to allow myself to think of it at all. But you would be-- I would be so lucky, so honored, blessed--”

Tony put his fingers to Bucky’s lips, stopping the flustered babble. “The worst proposal,” he repeated gently, “and yet the most appealing.” He brushed Bucky’s hair back and tried to banish the heaviness in his heart. How many people could say they had known love such as this? Truly, he was fortunate to have even this much. He should thank God for it, and not be so greedy.

But if he couldn’t have Bucky, he couldn’t bear the thought of being handed into the bishop’s care. “Maybe,” he said, “you should offer to make the trip.”

Bucky was trembling. He kissed Tony’s fingers. “You would-- you would run away with me? Be a vagabond’s husband? Tony-- I love you, I’ve never loved anyone, anything, as much as I love you. More, even, than my own honor. But, darling, I would never want such hardship for you.”

“I would endure a thousand such hardships to escape the fate his Grace envisions for me,” Tony returned fiercely. “I love you, whether you are Captain of the Guard or a lowly peasant. My place is at your side.”

Bucky gave a firm nod. “All right, then. I will-- make some arrangements, and then I will, in fact, suggest that I am the best candidate to negotiate with the Pope. You will need to be quick, as well. His Grace will push his case with you, as soon as I am gone.”

Tony nodded. “I will be ready when I receive your signal.” He hesitated, then leaned in to press his lips to Bucky’s, a desperate and longing kiss. “May it be very soon.”

* * *

Captain Rumlow nearly rode two horses to death, and inconvenienced any number of gatekeepers in his mad race across the countryside. There was nothing else for it, and he knew damn well that he couldn’t trust any of his men with such a terrible message. The Bishop was not a kind or forgiving sort. Any man who spoke the truth in the Bishop’s presence risked his own life to do so.

Which meant that any man with half a brain cell and a horse would have used both to get out of Aquila and as far from Killian’s grasp as he could manage, rather than say such words to his Grace.

His Grace would be livid. 

Rumlow all but ran down a few children, and did kill their pet chicken, on his way up the road to the citadel. 

It was also an opportunity. 

Rumlow had no idea what had upset the bishop about the thief, and honestly, he didn’t care. The thief was all but unimportant now. And Rumlow knew exactly where he was.

But he did know why the Bishop hated the former Captain, James Barnes.

Not very many people did -- his Grace was careful that those who knew were either sent to the far reaches of the province, or spent the rest of their lives enforcing his Grace’s will. Rumlow was the only one who knew most of the truth, and therefore, knew the value his information had.

He leaped off his horse before the dumb beast collapsed and ran the rest of the way on foot, arriving in the Bishop’s private gardens.

Killian was watching one of his girls dancing, dressed in a costume that resembled a bird in flight. She danced with graceful movements, imitating a swan or perhaps a peacock, although the dress itself was golden and tan. Rumlow licked his teeth, gathering his courage.

“Your Grace?”

Killian turned to face him, and then drew back, lip curling in disgust. “How dare you come here like this, filthy and dripping in sweat like some common laborer?” he hissed.

“My news could not wait, your Grace,” Rumlow said. He decided as long as he was tempting fate and God himself to strike him down, he’d go all the way. He took his helmet off and cupped a handful of water from the garden’s ornate fountain. Adorned marble with fanciful wolf and hawk heads spitting water.

Of course.

At least it was wet and relatively clean.

“James Barnes is back,” he reported.

For an instant, it seemed the bishop froze entirely, as if turned to stone. Well-attuned to Killian’s moods, the girls stilled as well.

Killian snapped into motion. “Walk with me.” He strode away from the pleasant garden, into the sheltered halls.

Rumlow would have rather sat down, thanks awfully, but he grabbed his helmet and took up a position at Killian’s side. He knew he reeked of sweat and the road. “He interfered with our capture of the Hawkeye. I lost four good men that day.” And had a burn on his arm and another on his leg that were healing slowly, though the bishop would not care for such trivialities. “They’re traveling together. I have all my men combing the area. We’ll find them.”

“And the hawk?”

“What? Your Grace--”

There was an urgency to it that the Bishop must understand. If Barnes risked so much to rescue a common thief, to be seen and reported, he had to know. The Hawkeye knew the way out of the prison.

Which meant he was a danger to the security of the Citadel. Which meant the _Bishop’s_ very life was in danger.

Did Killian not understand the importance of what Rumlow was telling him?

“The _hawk_ , Captain. There should be a hawk. Barnes never goes anywhere without it.” Killian’s eyes were like flames, hot and insistent.

“Yeah, that thing,” Rumlow said, disgusted. “A hunter. Trained to attack. It injured Rollins and unhorsed him.”

Killian smiled thinly. “Yes, it would be quite the spirited creature. You are not to harm the hawk, Captain, do you understand me?” He fixed Rumlow with a searing gaze. “The day the hawk dies is the day my new Captain of the Guard will preside at your funeral. Am I clear?”

“Crystal clear, your Grace,” Rumlow said. That much made sense, at any rate. Protecting Barnes’s pet bird. Just one more thing that the bishop demanded, nearly impossible to meet or please. What were they supposed to do with it? If Barnes had trained the damn thing, it’s not like they were going to be able to catch it. What did Killian expect, that he was going to sprout wings?

“We live in difficult times, Captain Rumlow,” Killian mused, looking out over the garden. “I levied a new tax, and was told that there was nothing with which to pay it. How am I supposed to--” His voice rose in frustration, and with difficulty, he reined in his temper. “The Lord visited me in my dreams last night, Captain. He told me that the Devil walks among us, and his name... is James Barnes.”

Rumlow wasn’t certain that he believed that. Not that Barnes couldn’t be an instrument of Satan, that much was obviously clear. But that God had spoken to the Bishop, personally. “There is a great deal of honor to be involved with bringing down an instrument of the evil one,” Rumlow suggested.

“Of course,” the bishop agreed silkily. He presented his hand, that enormous jewel winking on his finger. “Do not forget: to fail me is to fail Him. Go and rouse your men. And tell my secretary to summon Vanko.”

“As you say it, it will be done,” Rumlow said, bowing to kiss the ring. God might not speak to lowly captains like Rumlow, but through the Bishop, God would see he was rewarded for his service. That idea was enough to rouse fervor in anyone’s chest. He was a man on a holy mission from God, and he would succeed. For God, country, and Rumlow.

* * *

Bucky woke from his sleep and his dreams of Tony and a grassy, overgrown garden, to the sound of a sword hissing through the air. It was a sound destined to wake him from the soundest sleep, no matter how much he wanted to stay in the dream. He almost cried out, trying to reach back into the dreaming world and touch Tony’s hand one more time. How had he ever taken even that much for granted?

The hawk shifted on his wrist and flew off with a disgusted screech. 

Another whistle of steel, another thunk.

What the hell was the damned fool doing?

Bucky opened his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“We’ll need firewood,” Barton said, sounding somewhat out of breath. “I am, as my sainted mother once said, _showing initiative_.”

Bucky caught the blade between his gauntlets on the way down. “This sword has been in my family for generations. It has never known defeat. Until today.” He sighed and fetched a small hand-ax from his saddlebags. “Use this.”

He sat down on a nearby rock to inspect the edge for damage, turning it over and admiring the afternoon sunlight on the gems. “This jewel represents my family name; it was a gift from Queen Carol. And this, our alliance with the church. This stone was taken in the crusades and placed there by my father.” George had died when Bucky was only a child, had never seen what horrors occurred in Aquila and for that, Bucky was grateful. “And this--” he turned the sword over and touched the open setting. His goal. His mission. His life. And Tony’s.

Barton edged away nervously. “Sir, you don’t think that _I_ would--”

“No, no, of course not,” Bucky said. If there had been an opportunity for Barton to molest Bucky’s sword, the hawk would have left scratches all over his hands. “This is mine to fill. My quest, my redemption and my revenge.”

Barton studied him, tipping his head to the side almost like Tony did. “And what quest is that?”

“I have to kill a man.” It was getting closer to evening. Bucky glanced upward; the hawk was circling, feeling it as well.

“A specific man, I assume, since you’ve already killed several men in our brief acquaintance,” Barton mused. “Does this walking corpse have a name?”

“His Grace, Aldrich Killian, Bishop of Aquila,” Bucky said. The hawk shrieked defiance above him. Not unexpected.

“I... see.” Barton nodded thoughtfully. “Well. You have much to do, then, and I’ve already slowed you enough.” He took several steps back, eyes darting nervously around the woods, never turning away from Bucky. “You’ve been a charming traveling companion; I do hope we meet again someday.”

“Come with us to Aquila,” Bucky said. “Please.” He tried to remember what it was like, to have a friend, or at least to have an ally. What it was like to talk to real people, to understand them. To care about their well-being. It was like trying to chip his way through ice.

Barton looked at him like he was insane. “Not even for the life of my mother. Even if I knew who she was.”

Bucky shook his head in disgust. This moment was going just as bit as badly as he’d imagined. That’s what he got for depending on people. Just look what happened the last time he’d trusted someone. “I need your help. You’re-- you’re the only person who can get me inside the city.”

“I could barely get myself out,” Barton argued. “I just followed my nose!”

“Follow it back--” Bucky found himself with a handful of Barton’s shirt, practically dragging the man off his feet. This was utterly humiliating, being dependent on someone-- who had no reason at all to help. Gently, carefully, he put Barton down, smoothed out his shirt and tugged the lines straight. “I apologize.”

Barton’s eyes grew round. “You-- you don’t need to apologize to me, Captain. I just... You don’t want me. I’m a thief and a liar and no one who should have anything to do with a duel of honor!”

“You don’t understand,” Bucky said. “I’ve-- for years, I've wandered with no home, no purpose. Waiting and watching and hoping. Listening to the alarm bells at Aquila to tell me there might be some chance, some sliver of hope. Clinging to my ever-decreasing faith. Hoping for a sign from God… and here you are. Look at you, clever and quick and brave and resourceful. I have never begged a favor from someone before, but please. _Please_ help me.”

“Me?” Barton scoffed. “Sir, I talk to God all the time, and He’s never once mentioned you to me.”

“You could ask Him,” Bucky suggested. “If not for me, you’d be right back in those dungeons. If Rumlow let you live long enough to get back.”

Barton looked at him levelly, as solemn as Bucky had ever seen him. “You’re right, Captain. But there are strange forces at work in your life, forces that I can’t understand, that frighten me. You’ve given me my life and my freedom, and for that I thank you, knowing there is no way I could ever settle such a debt. But I am a thief and a man of no honor, and I cannot help you. You are a man of honor, so I don’t think you would kill me, simply for being what I am. But better to die on that blade than set foot in Aquila again.” He nodded decisively, and turned to go.

Tony would be sick at how Bucky was acting; a trained warrior, more than twice the size of Barton, becoming a bully, a villain bent on revenge, and dragging a common peasant on his desperate mission, a mission that was almost assuredly going to end in many, many deaths. 

But it was all for Tony, in the end.

Bucky couldn’t do it. He _could not_ let Barton walk away. He would never have this chance again. Barton would rather die now, on this sword? Let him. Bucky would rather destroy everything, every single chance they had, than go back to the life they’d had these last few years. Cursed, aching, half alive, half human.

_No_.

He threw his ancestor’s sword like a javelin, clipping off the end of a lock of Barton’s hair before embedding itself several inches into the nearest tree. Bucky already had his hand on his crossbow. _Go on. You’d rather die? Prove it._

Barton stopped, looking at the sword where it quivered in the tree's trunk. Bucky couldn’t see his expression, and the set of his shoulders gave away nothing.

Finally, after three slow breaths, Barton turned, smiling brightly. “I’ll just go gather some more wood for the fire, then, shall I?”

God would have a long list of things to answer for, someday.

And so would Bucky.


	6. From the Pan to the Fire

The first thing Tony looked for when he opened his eyes was the fading glow of the twilight, the faintest orange sheen to the western sky. That soft glow and its match before the dawn were all he had of the sun, anymore, and if he could, he eked out the most of them.

At least he needn’t worry about his skin darkening or getting freckles. He scoffed to himself, then looked around. Bucky usually left-- Ah, there, a tunic and pants.

Tony pulled them on, eyes scanning the woods around them for the wolf. He wasn’t usually very close when Tony woke; Bucky hated to be close to him for the moment of the change, the moment when their eyes might meet for just long enough to read each other’s pain.

And the wolf needed to hunt.

Tony sighed. There, ahead of him, was the faint glow of a banked fire. There might be dinner there. He stepped into the clearing, finding it empty of anyone other than Widow, and stretched out his hands to warm them over the coals.

Widow nudged him in the back, and Tony turned with a smile. “Hello to you, too,” he greeted the horse. “Yes, I’ve missed you. Do you want to go for a ride tonight?”

Widow snorted, tossing her head, pawing at the ground. That often meant yes, but-- Bucky had a tendency to tell the horse to _stay_ , guard his sword, protect Tony. Widow wasn’t a monster, although she put on that face to please her rider. Going for a ride, especially the way Tony liked to ride, wild and free and careless, feeling the wind in his hair that was somehow reminiscent of flight-- that was likely something that Bucky would disapprove of. If he ever knew about it.

Early on, they’d left letters for each other, heartbreaking and raw. But after so long, there was nothing else to say. 

Widow finally bowed her head in acceptance of Tony’s suggestion.

Tony smiled and planted a kiss on her nose. “Thank you,” he said. She’d been unsaddled for the night, of course, but Tony didn’t care about that. He grabbed hold of her mane and pulled himself up onto her back, settling into his seat as she danced sideways a few steps. This was where Bucky sat, Tony thought, and this was as close as they could be.

He closed his eyes against the pain, old and familiar now, but never faded. He shook off the moment of melancholy and bent low over Widow’s neck. “Let’s ride, my beauty,” he whispered. “Let’s _run_.”

Widow was, as always, incredibly responsive, moving with every shift of Tony’s weight, as if there were some invisible connection between them. As if the mare could read Tony’s wishes as well as his direction.

It was a good run, a dash through the forest, hooves thundering against the hard ground, the icy wind in Tony’s face.

They couldn’t go for long, of course. Widow was their only connection, and the poor horse had to serve them both. Even a warhorse would get tired. 

Although there had been the scrawny, dirty-blond man, the one who’d been traveling with them. Tony wasn’t sure what to make of that man, or where he even was now. It wasn’t like Bucky would tell the truth.

Who would believe it?

It was time to go back to the camp, to thank Widow for the run and then go and find the wolf. He would be done hunting by now, Tony was sure.

He turned Widow back toward the camp -- his sense of direction had improved immeasurably over the last years.

“Pssst,” someone said as Widow entered the clearing. “Psst, my lord.”

Widow didn’t shy and dance away as if she were startled. She just snorted and kept walking. Tony pulled her to a stop and turned to look.

“My lord, please, up here--”

Bound up like a trussed turkey, the scruffy young man that Tony remembered seeing before, for a few moments. Hands tied behind his back, and rope that held him to a set of forked branches above the camp. It did not look particularly comfortable.

“What on earth are you doing up there?” Tony wondered.

“That-- well, that’s a very good question, isn’t it?” As if Tony wouldn’t ask. “Uh, there. There was a terrible fight. The bishop’s guards came, dozens of them. It was terrible.”

He was very clearly lying and doing a bad job of it, but the smile on his face was sweet, and he looked harmless enough. Tony had no idea what Bucky was up to -- in the years since they’d stopped exchanging letters, Tony had just… given up. Gone wherever Bucky took them, wore the clothes he left, ate the food, and tried to pretend he wasn’t desperately lonely. It would be too dangerous to try to make a friend. Who could they trust, after all?

“Why didn’t they kill you?” Tony challenged, more amused than afraid. Whoever this man was, barely more than a boy, he was no threat to Tony, and _certainly_ not a threat to Bucky.

“Why didn’t they?” he echoed. “You’re very astute. I asked them that myself, of course--”

“Did you, now? And they said...?”

“--they said they preferred to leave that honor to the Bishop. Please, my lord, cut me loose. They’ll be back at any moment.”

“Will they.” Tony patted Widow’s neck absently and looked around the little campsite. Where was the wolf?

“Please?” Truly, he was pathetic. And it might be nice to have someone to talk to, for a change. “Please. A giant owl eyed me quite closely not but ten minutes ago. I-- please?”

“All right. Hold still.” Tony looked around, then leaned over to pick up Bucky’s sword, which was leaning against a tree. It was very heavy. Tony was no weakling, but he couldn’t imagine actually fighting with this thing.

Of course, he’d felt Bucky’s muscles before, so it was hardly surprising that Bucky wasn’t bothered by the weight of it. Tony hefted it over his head and took aim. “Hold _very_ still.”

“Not sure I _could_ move,” the man said. 

Tony checked the position and swung the sword down.

“Yikes,” the man said, and then rolled the rest of the way out of the tree, landing somewhat near Widow’s feet. “Nice horse, don’t step on me, I brought you dinner this afternoon, remember? Thank you. Good girl. Yes, I’m getting up.”

He jumped to his feet, rubbing at his wrists. “Thank you, my lord. I’m grateful for your care.”

Somewhere, out in the forest, the wolf howled, a low, mournful sound.

Tony turned toward it, eagerly searching for a glimmer of movement, the drift of pale fur.

Another howl. “You don’t need to be afraid,” Tony told the man. “He’s really quite--” He turned, and the man was gone.

Tony sighed. “Well, now he’ll be in a mood.”

“Thanks so much,” his voice said from impossibly far away. How the hell had he run that fast after being trussed up? “Tell the Captain he ties a wicked knot!”

For a moment, Tony was frozen, imagining that Bucky might be angry, might even yell at him. Except that he hadn’t heard Bucky’s voice in years, hadn’t seen a human expression on his face, the tenderness of his gaze. Nothing.

And for just a moment, Tony thought he’d gleefully take being yelled at, if only to hear his lover again.

* * *

There was a fire down at the bottom of the hills. A band of travelers, perhaps, not yet ready to break camp and resume their journey? A village gathering of some sort? A peasant preparing to smoke a haul of fish?

Clint couldn’t tell; even with his sharp eyes, he couldn’t see through rocks, and whoever’s fire it was, they were tucked up under a wide spar of rock. But he could see the smoke, could smell it. His stomach rumbled irritably.

At least Barnes had fed him.

He would need to be cautious, but perhaps he could stroll down and barter for some breakfast.

“Hmmm,” someone said, and a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. “God says all good things come to those who wait, but I must say, I didn’t expect Him to be quite so rewarding. Why don’t you join us, Hawkeye?”

The someone was in the red and silver uniform, the Bishop’s guard. He grabbed Clint’s wrist and wrenched his arm up between his shoulder blades.

“Ow, ow, I’m coming, you don’t have to be so _ow!_ ” Clint tried to twist free but the soldier had him in an iron grip. It seemed his goose was well and truly cooked.

_Should’ve stuck with Barnes,_ he thought. At least then he might have been able to get away.

“You’re quite a long ways from the gutters where you belong,” the guard said as he shoved Clint past the rock spar to the little group of soldiers. Captain Rumlow wasn't there; he didn’t seem to be with the group. Their leader seemed to be a sergeant, maybe. Clint wasn’t sure if they’d met before. Not formally, at any rate. Guards and soldiers not usually troubling themselves to be familiar with their prisoners. “Why don’t you sit down and have something to drink. There’s no reason this has to be unpleasant. Where is Barnes?”

Clint let them give him a battered tin cup of water. He eyed the rabbit they were roasting, but they didn’t offer him any of that. Rude. “Barnes...” he said thoughtfully, mind racing. “Barnes, where have I heard that-- Ah! Big fellow on an even bigger horse, yes? I don’t know. Last I heard, he was heading south toward Aquila.” They would assume he was lying.

One of the other guards laughed, rude and loud. “Then we ride north, of course,” the man suggested. He grabbed a bit of roasted rabbit, chewing noisily.

Clint frowned. “It’s very rude to assume someone is a liar when you’ve only just met them,” he said cooly.

The first man grabbed Clint’s chin, staring him in the face. “And yet, you knew that we would,” he said. “You were counting on it. Well, maybe even a thief has some loyalty. Get the squad together. We ride south, toward Aquila.”

Clint appealed to the sky. “I told the truth, Lord! Is this how You repay me? How am I meant to learn Your lessons if You keep making things so confusing?”

But maybe they would forget about him in their eagerness to catch Barnes. He watched the soldiers bustling around, gathering their gear and dousing the fire, and did his best to melt into the shadows. _Nothing important or worth of notice here_...

One step, another. No one seemed to be paying him any mind at all. He tried to look around without turning his head, looking for somewhere that he might hide.

“Now--” the sergeant said, holding up a set of shackles. “I’m sure you already know how these work. Get on the horse, and I won’t drag you behind us on a rope.”

Clint shot another reproachful glance toward the heavens. He tried to gauge the sergeant’s sincerity. The guard seemed... very sincere, if Clint had to be honest, about dragging him along on the rope. And the extremely rude man, over there, definitely seemed like the sort who would kick his horse into a canter just to be cruel.

Clint eyed the handcuffs with distaste, but there didn’t seem to be a way out. Reluctantly, he clambered onto the indicated horse -- at least a few days with Barnes had taught him how to properly mount, or at least not disgracefully -- and didn’t try to struggle when the sergeant bound his hands.

“Really, I have to thank you,” the sergeant said. “You’re going to make me very rich, and well in the Bishop’s favor. Perhaps I’ll ask him for leniency for you; why hang you, when you could live a very, very long life in prison?”

He tied Clint’s ankle to the stirrup and grabbed the reins, mounting his own horse to lead them away.

Clint concentrated on not falling out of the saddle and hating the sergeant very, very much. “It seems doubtful,” he noted. “Prison isn’t really very good for one’s health.” The sergeant didn't deign to respond. Not that Clint had thought he would.

The soldiers formed up and fell in behind the sergeant. One rode on ahead to scout for a good location to set a trap for the former captain.

Above them, the sky was clear and the sun was exceptionally bright. Empty. At least there was no sign of Barnes’ hawk. Maybe the captain had decided to wait for another sign from God.

Clint might have told him not to bother; God was being very contradictory right now. Perhaps He was having a bad century.

“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” Clint wondered when the sergeant sent a pair of men out to check their flanks. “He might be lying in wait to pick you off, one by one.”

He’d seen men try to look unconcerned before. The sergeant didn’t do a very good job of it. Served him right. 

“I found a good spot,” the scout came back. “There’s a farmstead, about a league from here. Lots of outbuildings. He has to water that stupid horse of his some time. He’ll pass right by.”

“Good,” the sergeant said. “Let’s go.”

“You really don’t want to insult his horse where he can hear you,” Clint advised. “He takes her honor very seriously.”

“Someone put a gag on this scum. I’m tired of hearing him talk. Really, it astonishes me that Barnes put up with you for as long as he did. Ungrateful, whiny, annoying little _brat_.”

“Hey, now, that’s hardly called for!” Clint argued. “I can be grateful, when you give me something tommmmff!” The gag tasted terrible, like someone’s unwashed shirt. Or socks, maybe. And they tied it _entirely_ tighter than it needed to be, which meant Clint was absolutely right about the one guard’s propensity toward cruelty.

Of course, he _did_ wonder why Barnes had bothered to put up with him. He knew he wasn’t the best company. He was a thief and a liar, prone to make light of serious things and take jests entirely too seriously. He wasn’t sure it stretched all the way to _whiny_ , but he did complain a lot, even granting that he had a lot to complain about.

Really, he’d done Barnes a favor by running away. Clint was no one’s idea of a sign from God.

Even more annoying; the guards left him on the horse, exhausted, aching, and thirsty, while they set up the trap. 

God was on someone’s side, and Clint wasn’t sure that it wasn’t the bishop, because not but an hour before sunset, he could see the smudge of darkness that was Widow, and the tiny speck of a hawk flying above.

Barnes was headed right this way, straight into the trap.

_Go away!_ he thought at Barnes. _You idiot, turn around!_

Barnes didn’t hear him. Clint pushed at the gag with his tongue, twisting his head around to try to drag it looser.

All around him, he could hear the sound of the soldiers loading their crossbows, soft clicks as they lay a bolt, the deep thrum of drawing the string. Barnes was going to be _slaughtered_. It wasn’t a fair fight, nothing like that, but an ambush. An execution. And the man who had saved Clint’s own miserable life at least twice, had treated him with some small amount of respect, who had pleaded for his help, was going to die, and Clint couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that somehow, that was going to be Clint’s fault.

Above him, the hawk screamed, and Barnes slowed his mount a little, proceeding with a little more caution.

Clint managed to work the gag just loose enough to get it out of his mouth. He dragged in a breath to yell a warning. The soldiers might take his head off altogether, but it would be a faster death than hanging, probably. “Ba--” The soldier nearest Clint clapped a hand over his mouth, aborting the warning.

Clint snarled and bit down. Hard.

The man yelled, clubbing Clint in the head, but it was enough, it was enough, Barnes was looking around warily, his own bow in his hand. 

Another guard raised a bow, aiming with deadly ease.

Clint kicked at him, but couldn’t reach. He gritted his teeth and started working his way out of the handcuffs. _Please, Lord, don’t let me fall off this horse until I can untie my ankle. I’d break my leg, and You wouldn’t want that on Your conscience, would you?_

Barnes drew his massive sword with a steely slither. He leaned forward against Widow’s neck, making himself a smaller target. A few steps, more. The great mare snorted and shook her head, obviously distressed.

The horse that Clint was on took a restless step to the side.

Fine-- Clint kicked the horse, forcing it toward the crossbowman. He’d fall on that guy. It’d be better than hitting the ground. And would foul the man's aim at the same time. 

“Come back here you little--”

Everything seemed to happen at once.

The bowman squeezed the trigger. Barnes charged forward, seeing something that got his attention. Clint fell off the horse. The arrow zipped away into the sky.

The hawk screamed. 

On the ground, Barnes looked up and screamed.

The hawk circled, wing held at an odd angle until it glided to the ground.

It did not get up again.

“No!” That wasn’t Barnes. Barnes was seemingly beyond words. He’d been relentless before, but now he fought like a man crazed.

Clint looked around for a way to help, a rock to throw or anything, but one of the soldiers grabbed him by the shirt and threw him to the ground, knocking all the wind from his lungs.

He was almost stabbed; laying there on the ground, unable to remember how to get air into his chest, and Barnes practically went through the man; killing him on reflex, and possibly not even noticing Clint on the ground there.

Which was… no, not great, but at least Clint was now alone and not being molested while he struggled to breathe, to get all the way out the cuffs. 

It was uncomfortable, but eventually he managed it.

By the time he sat up, Barnes was shoving the last corpse off his blade. He’d been shot with a crossbow at some point in the shoulder, but he was ignoring it, as if the blood dribbling down his side was a mere nuisance. 

He stared around like a man crazed, until he found the dark pile of feathers on the ground that was his hawk.

Still alive, Clint thought, based on the noise the bird made.

“It’s all right, it’s all right, you’re going to be just fine,” Barnes was saying, speaking softly, tenderly, to the bird. “Barton, get a cloth from my saddlebag, please. Hurry.”

Clint rushed to obey, though he wasn’t sure what good it would do. Surely, the poor creature was done for. He didn’t say that, though, just brought the cloth to Barnes.

“Shh, shh, darling, it’s all right. Barton’s here, he’s going--” Barnes took the cloth and wrapped the bird in it, holding it still. “You have to take him. Get help.”

“Me?” Clint was already shaking his head, backing away. “What could I do?”

Barnes looked around, as if waiting for a miracle. “There’s a castle, not far from here-- falling down, it’s a ruin, but there’s a friar there, Brother Steven. Take him the bird. He’ll know what to do.”

“But sir, I don’t--”

“Get on my horse and take this bird, please, you must do as I tell you--” Barnes couldn’t seem to get back to his feet, the bolt in his shoulder throbbing with every movement. “Widow will take you where you need to go.”

“She won’t let me ride her without you,” Clint pointed out. Why was Barnes so worried about his damned bird when he had a crossbow bolt in his own arm? “Sir, really--”

“You will do as I tell you,” Barnes said, “because if you do not, I will know. And I will hunt you down if it takes me the rest of my life, and you will wish that the bishop had gotten to you first, do you understand me?”

The fire in Barnes’ eyes was hotter than Clint had ever imagined the fires of Hell. He had no doubt that Barnes would do exactly as he said. “All right,” he conceded, “I’m going.” He hauled himself up into Widow’s saddle and let Barnes pass the hawk up to him. He cradled it against his chest, as carefully as he could.

“Go, hurry, there’s not much time,” Barnes said. He slapped Widow’s flank and the mare broke into a canter. 

Clint hoped she knew where she was going, because Clint was, in fact, _not steering_ at all.


	7. Deep in the Shadows

The shadows were growing long by the time Clint spotted a ruined castle up on a hill. He hoped to God that it was the one Barnes had sent him to.

The hawk, cradled against his chest, made a pitiful sound. “Shh, I know,” Clint soothed it, “look, the castle’s just there, we’re almost there.” He petted the feathers on its head, trying to calm it.

It snapped at him, and he barely snatched his hand away in time to save his fingers. “Sure, great, attack the man who’s trying to save you,” he scolded it. “They call me Hawkeye, you know. You should be nicer to me -- we’re practically related.” The hawk snapped at him again. “Fine. I’ll turn you over to this Brother Steven and _he_ can watch you die, how do you like that?”

The hawk didn’t answer him.

Widow walked right up to the castle yard and then stopped, planting her feet firmly and shaking her mane as if to say _I’ve had enough of this nonsense_.

“You and me both, sister,” Clint said. He slid off her back, doing his best not to jar the hawk, and then walked around in circles for a minute, wincing as blood returned to parts of his body that seemed to have forgotten about it. He was not meant for long hours of riding.

“Ho, the castle!” he called. It didn’t really seem to be occupied. “Hello!”

“Keep your ho there,” a voice said. A shadow moved on the upper walls. “This is a house of God, not a brothel.”

“I’m looking for Brother Steven,” Clint called.

“I can’t imagine why,” the man said. He was tall, really. Hard to tell exactly given that he wasn’t clearly visible, but he seemed on the same level, perhaps a little taller, a little more broad shouldered than the Captain. Or maybe that was just the robe. “What do you want?”

“I was told to bring you this bird,” Clint said, holding it out a little, as if to show it. “It’s been sorely wounded.”

“Never been one to say no to a roasted drumstick,” Brother Steven said. “Bring it on up, I’ll lower the bridge.”

Clint pulled the hawk back against his chest protectively. “We can’t eat this bird!”

The drawbridge thunked to the ground. “Why not? It’s not Lent for another three months-- I think. I admit I’m not entirely certain what day it is, but it’s still _winter_.”

“Because if we eat this bird, Captain Barnes is likely to eat _me,_ ” Clint said. He headed toward the drawbridge.

“Who did you say?” Brother Steven asked. “Whose bird is it?”

“Barnes,” Clint repeated. “Captain James Barnes. It’s his hawk.”

Brother Steven pushed back his hood to reveal a face like an angel; the blondest hair, the bluest eyes. Cleft chin, sharp cheekbones. Everything that Clint had ever seen in a painting, an icon done in stained glass. “Dear God,” he exclaimed. “ _Bucky_?”

“Who the hell is Bucky?” Clint wondered. “Are you going to help this hawk, or not?”

“Bring him in at once,” Brother Steven demanded. “Hurry up, hurry up, there’s not much time, what happened to them? Where’s the captain? Is he-- well, no of course he couldn’t come with you. Not now.”

“He was wounded in the same skirmish that injured the hawk,” Clint said. “He told me to ride ahead. That you would know how to save it.”

“Well, thank God he finally has some goddamn faith in me,” Brother Steven said. 

“ _Language_ ,” Clint gasped, shocked by the casual blasphemy -- from a man of the cloth, no less.

“Profanity,” Brother Steven said, chivying him toward a tall, slightly less run-down part of the keep. “From the Latin, _profanus_ , _pro_ , outside, and _fanum_ , meaning the temple. Language that shouldn’t be used in the temple. So, I don’t see a temple around here. And sometimes a little bit of foul language is exactly what fits the situation. Put him down there, on the pallet.”

It seemed an awfully large resting place for such a tiny creature, but Clint did as he was told. The sooner he was done with these strange goings-on, the better. All the same, he didn’t have the slightest idea what Brother Steven could possibly do to help. Taking the bolt back out of the hawk was going to do more damage than it had going in. The poor thing was done for.

“There’s a well in the courtyard,” Brother Steven said. “Go get me a bucket of clean water. Grab some of the sheets off the line on your way back. Hurry up, it’s almost sunset.”

What that had to do with anything, Clint had no idea. The room where he’d put the hawk only had one high, narrow window; Brother Stephen would have to do his work by lamplight one way or the other.

But he found his way to the courtyard and hauled up a bucket of water. He paused just long enough to take a few swallows for himself -- it had been a long and thirsty day, and no one had offered him so much as a cup -- and then made his way back, bundling the sheets off the line and wrapping them around his neck so they wouldn’t drag on the ground.

“All right, good, good, thank you,” Brother Steven said. “Put those down. Close the door behind you. There’s some apples over by the fire. Good night. Thank you. Go… _now_.”

“But I can help--”

“Get out you idiot manchild!”

For a man of the cloth, Brother Steven was awfully rude. Clint fled; discretion being the better part of valor, and also, Steven had said something about apples, and Clint was starving. Apples weren’t much, but it would be a good start, right?

He found them easily enough, and there were more than a few in a bushel basket. Clint ate two of them, core and all, without much stopping to breathe. That eased the most insistent grumbling from his stomach, at least. He munched on a third thoughtfully as the sun finished setting, looking back up at the door that Brother Steven had shoved him out of.

What was he doing in there?

Clint shifted around to see if there were something else to eat that wasn’t fruit -- Clint would kill for a hunk of bread, or at least talk sternly to someone using harsh language -- and caught a glimpse of Brother Steven, who had come out of the tower and was crawling around in what looked like an herb garden, cutting bits and snips of different weeds.

The friar was muttering to himself under his breath, too, which meant he was probably fairly distracted.

Distracted enough for Clint to stroll back toward the tower where the hawk was. Casual, he reminded himself. Act casual. Casual, casual...

It probably wasn’t very casual to be muttering _casual_ over and over under his breath.

But Brother Steven didn’t seem to notice. Once Clint had found the door, it was the work of only a moment to convince the lock to open for him, and then he was slipping inside, carefully closing the door behind him lest Brother Steven notice.

Door secured, he turned--

There was a man -- _the_ man, the same one Clint had seen each of the last few evenings -- lying on the cot, a bloodied quarrel protruding from his shoulder, less than a handspan from his heart. He was looking at Clint steadily. “Barnes,” he said softly. “Where is he? Is he hurt?”

Clint shrugged one shoulder, clinging to nonchalance like a lifeline. “He was injured. But well, my lord. We were attacked. The Bishop’s men-- well, the captain fought valiantly, just incredible, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone fight like him. But the hawk... The hawk was struck. An accident. But... you already know that, don’t you?”

Clint was even more remorseful, guilty and ashamed. He hadn’t meant the poor thing to be wounded, hadn’t rejoiced in it, but hadn’t he resented it? The way Barnes treated the beast like it was even more valuable than Clint himself?

Of course, Clint knew he wasn’t much, a thief and a liar and a coward.

And this man--

This man, who was somehow, sometimes, also the hawk?

“Yes,” the man admitted. His gaze drifted to the ceiling above him, incurious and dull. “I know.”

Clint’s heart bounded around in his chest like a panicked rabbit. He had known, hadn’t he _known_ that something was just not right with the captain? With this man? He’d known and he’d tried to get away, but like a spiderweb, or a briar patch, he couldn’t quite escape, and now he was looking at a beautiful, perfect man, who was in pain.

Because of him.

“Are you-- are you real? Flesh? Or spirit?”

The man shrugged his uninjured shoulder. “I’m sadness.”

That… didn’t seem like much of a name, really. But Clint could go with Lord Sadness. It went well with Captain Barnes, the madman. He was about to introduce himself when he was suddenly hauled up by the scruff.

“How the hell did you get in here? Get out, get out and stay out, you--” Brother Steven was really, _really_ huge when he grabbed hold of Clint’s collar like that, and as breathing was a thing that Clint liked doing on a regular basis--

“I’m going, I’m going!” he protested, shuffling his feet in the direction of the door. He couldn’t help looking back, though, as he opened it, to see Brother Steven kneeling beside the cot, taking one of Lord Sadness’ hands gently.

Lord Sadness just turned his face to the wall, shutting them away.

* * *

How long had it been since Tony had last seen Steve? Somewhere in all that time, Steve had grown out a beard and his normally short and neat blond hair was long and combed back from his forehead.

“You look _terrible_ ,” Steve confided. He had a cup full of pungent herbs and a little wooden paddle. “Will you let me help you?”

“Do I have a choice?” Tony wondered.

“I could call your little friend back in here,” Steve said. “He looks to be a good sort, if a bit light-fingered and quick with a lockpick. I don’t know that he’s going to have the resolve to pull out a crossbow bolt. I know, I know… but right now, I have the means to help you.”

“Did you ever think that maybe God meant us to die?” Tony asked. But he didn’t protest when Steve started smearing the herb concoction on his chest around the wound. It didn't seem worth the effort.

“Everyone dies, eventually,” Steve said. “But not today. Not yet. God has plans for all of us, even now. Here, drink this, it will dull the pain, a little.”

Tony wasn’t sure he wanted the pain to be dulled, if he were being honest. It was one of the few things he could really _feel_. The pain of the bolt, the ache of longing for Bucky... All else was a muted blur.

At least the hole in his chest had a hope of healing, of ceasing to hurt.

But Steve was looking at him with those wide, earnest eyes. Tony sighed and lifted his head enough to sip from the cup, swallowing down the bitter tea without so much as a grimace.

“Everything will turn out for the best,” Steve promised. “You’ll see. God is great, works in mysterious ways, and while that is such a bullshit excuse, I know that it is. But I also know that it’s true. Take a deep breath and try not to move. At least it’s a crossbow bolt and not an arrow. This is going to hurt.”

Several years ago, Tony would have flung a sarcastic response back at Steve. _No_ really _?_ But all he could bring himself to do now was nod. He reached up with his good arm, gripping the rough cloth of Steve’s tunic in his fist, bracing himself against Steve’s solid bulk.

“It’s all right, Tony,” Steve murmured. “I’ll take care of you.”

He grasped the shaft of the arrow, his blue eyes wide and somehow worthy of trust, even knowing how many times, and in how many ways, Steve had failed him, failed both of them, before.

“One.” Steve nodded. “Two.”

Tony closed his eyes.

“Three.”

Tony screamed. It was like fire burning through him, like having his arm ripped free, like-- Like those first evenings, after the curse, when he would open his eyes and see Bucky there, reaching to touch, only to have his fingers sink into coarse white fur.

“I know,” Steve said. “I’m sorry.” 

The pain didn’t stop, that would have been nice, wouldn’t it? But it throbbed a few more times and the fuzzy-headed sleep-muddled ease of the medicine kicked in. Tony wouldn’t want to go dancing, but he could lay there and let Steve tend the wound, bind his shoulder, without wishing the Bishop had just killed them outright.

Somewhere, out in the night, he could hear Bucky howling.

* * *

It was a warning. It must be.

So much pain could not exist in the universe without meaning something. He was on fire, burning with it, from the inside out. 

Outside himself, the sermon went on, the bells rejoicing. He delivered the sermon in his voice that had often been called _inspiring_ by those wishing to gain favor with him, listened to the liturgy as the men and women responded, by rote. Most of them couldn’t read, but that was all right.

It was always the educated members of the Church who were the dangerous ones. The ones who might compare notes with distant relations. The ones who expected something in this life, for the favors they did the Bishop, instead of knowing they would get their just reward in Heaven.

Like Anthony’s guardian, who had dangled a pretty boy and a pretty inheritance in front of Killian, as if the Bishop of Aquila were some sort of useful _donkey_.

He’d taken care of that man. It hadn’t even been hard; one of the Church guards in the right place at the right time, granted indulgence for the crime of murder in exchange for committing it again.

But someday, Killian thought, he might have his own assassin to worry about.

The fire spread through his body, touching his golden robes. He smoldered and smoked, and the congregation started to notice. A girl grabbed her father’s hand, pointing.

They knew, they must know, Killian thought, panicked.

They knew he’d made a deal, spoken with, been in the presence of-- Satan himself.

Kill them, he thought. Kill them all.

He lunged forward, finding a dagger among his robes--

Something stabbed him in the shoulder.

Pain, and blood, and a dark, knowing grin. 

_Never again--_ Anthony said. _I’ll never answer to you again._

So beautiful. Anthony had always been so beautiful. Even when Killian realized how he’d been drawn in to Stane’s plans, Anthony was still a prize worth having. Worth everything--

Pain in his shoulder, and he knew he shouldn’t look, _mustn’t_ look, but he could no more stop from turning his head than he could cease the rising of the sun each morning. Pain, and hot breath, and the white wolf snarled at him, teeth still sunk deep--

“Your Grace?”

Killian was in his bedchamber, sitting upright and panting, clutching at the shoulder that still burned and ached. The door to his chamber was open, a shadowy figure limned in the lamplight from the hall. “I’m sorry, your Grace, but you particularly insisted, any time of day or night... He’s here.”

The servant stepped away and another pressed forward.

Still half-caught in the dream, Killian nearly cried out at the savage figure before he realized what -- _who_ \-- he was seeing.

Vanko the wolf-killer grinned wide. “Your Grace.”


	8. Courage and Honesty

The wolf was still howling occasionally, and Clint had caught glimpses of it, stalking a wide circle around the castle like a ghost.

When Brother Steven finally came out of the room and settled himself down by the fire, Clint nearly jumped out of his skin.

“How, uh. Is he--” Clint shuffled a little, glancing back over his shoulder toward the window in the tower.

“Resting,” Brother Steven said. “Probably working to sharpen his wit so that he can be properly sarcastic and scathing as soon as he’s not in so much pain. But he’ll survive, in no small part thanks to you.”

Clint shuddered. “Leave me out of it, Father, I beg. There are strange and terrible magics here. More than I am equipped to deal with.” Out in the hills, the wolf howled again, low and mournful. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

“To be honest,” Brother Steven said, “I’m shocked he’s not tried to take on the walls. But yes, you already know the truth. By day, he’s the Captain, brave and strong and true, and at night, he stalks through the world on four feet, the white wolf. Likewise, Anthony is a glorious bird during the day, and at night, he is human once more. Day and night, wolf and hawk, for as long as they both shall live.”

Brother Steven sat down and offered Clint a trencher bread, filled with warm stew. Lamb and some vegetables. “Sucks, doesn’t it?”

Clint’s stomach growled hungrily, but he had to ask, “Why?”

“Jealousy,” Brother Steven said. “Anthony Stark was the son of a wealthy and powerful man who died when Anthony was not yet grown. He fell under the custodianship of an uncle, who thought to make use of Anthony’s beauty--”

Brother Steven gave Clint an appraising look. “I see you’ve also noticed. Looking at his face-- it’s like, I don’t know, looking--”

“At the face of love itself,” Clint finished, staring into the fire and seeing only a pair of laughing brown eyes. He was normally not given to such romantic turns of phrase, but Anthony -- what a lovely name -- demanded them.

“I suppose we all fell in love with him, in our own way,” Brother Steven said. “Even the Bishop was enraptured.”

“Bishop _Killian?_ ” Clint glanced back toward the tower. “Was in love with Anthony.”

“As close as that horrible man can manage,” Steven agreed. “He was obsessed. Invited him to dinner every night, used every excuse to be near him. Held wild parties in the hopes of spending half the evening dancing. An excess of indulgence; he was warned even by the pope of being too obvious with his affections, but Killian didn’t care. He swore he would make Anthony his, by any means. If he couldn’t have Anthony, no one would.”

“But Anthony -- Tony to his friends -- wasn’t an idiot. He understood in an instant what took many of us too long, that Killian was evil, foul and cruel. Merciless. He refused to give an inch, staying just on the very border to what would incite the Bishop’s rage. And, all the while, under his very nose, Tony fell in love with the Captain of the Guard.”

“James Barnes,” Clint supplied softly. He shook his head. “They defied the bishop?”

“They formed a plan to run away together,” Brother Steven said. “Married in secret, they headed toward Italy, and the protection of the pope. But the man who married them, he was stupid. He didn’t like the idea of defying the church’s law, he… he didn’t understand, and so he went to the Bishop for advice, not realizing-- well, you can imagine how the Bishop reacted. His Grace seemed to go mad with hatred and jealousy.”

“He sent the guards after them,” Clint guessed. “To hang Barnes and...” He couldn’t say aloud what he imagined the bishop would have done to Anthony.

“If only he’d been so lenient,” Brother Steven said. “Instead, he cried out to the powers of Hell, brought the Evil One here to the mortal plane for the means to damn the lovers. And Hell was happy to oblige. Thus, as you see them now, half human and half animal. Never being able to touch each other as spouses; only a few seconds at dawn and at dusk when they can almost-- almost touch each other, but not. As long as there is day and night, as long as they both shall live. Poor dumb animals with no real memory, only an abiding need to be near the other.”

It was the saddest thing that Clint had ever heard. He threw himself up to pace. “And there is no hope at all?” He looked at Brother Steve, pleading. “Barnes means to kill the bishop. If he does, if he destroys the author of their curse, then perhaps--?”

“No, no, he can’t do that,” Brother Steven said. “If the Bishop dies, the curse will never be broken. But I think… I think I may have found a way to break the curse. I was, in fact, just wondering how I could reach them, to tell them what I’ve learned, when you came to the castle. I believe God has something special in mind for you-- why else would you be here, _now_?”

Clint shook his head. “I’m no one, a nobody, nothing of importance, Father.”

“ _Everyone_ is important,” Brother Steven insisted. “Not one sparrow falls to the ground that God does not know about it. You see, there are only a few days left, before the conditions to break the curse come to pass. And you-- you are friends with both Anthony and James. You can talk to him, make him listen to me.”

“Friends?” Clint scoffed. “Hardly. He tolerates me, at best. He’ll never listen to me.”

“You saved Anthony’s life,” Brother Steven said.

Clint shook his head. Barnes knew what he was, at heart, a cutpurse and a liar. Useful, perhaps, and occasionally amusing, but not a man to trust. Clint highly doubted Barnes would listen to anyone at all who wasn’t Anthony.

That thought tugged and itched at Clint’s thoughts, and he turned once more to look up at the tower window, pale candlelight flickering behind the shutters. “I will... try.”

* * *

The sun wasn’t even up when Brother Steven kicked him in the ankle. “Wake up!”

Clint jerked awake. “What, where, I didn’t do it!”

“That’s never a good sign for your first reaction to anything,” Brother Steven said, smirking. “Maybe you ought to go to confession more often. Get up. The Bishop’s men are here, I need your help.”

Clint scrambled to his feet, looking around wildly, trying to locate a place to hide. “Where are they?”

“I’ll delay them, but I can’t keep them out,” Brother Steven said. “Get Tony and find somewhere to hide until sunrise.”

“Right. Hiding, I’m very good at hiding.” Clint scurried toward the tower. “My lord!”

Tony was staring lifelessly at the wall. He barely glanced at Clint. “What.”

“Soldiers are coming, my lord,” Clint chirped, trying to find something remotely resembling clothes that Tony could wear. There, a robe, and a loose pair of shoes. “We need to go.”

For a moment, Clint thought Tony was going to turn his back and refuse to get up, giving in to the melancholy that had overcome him. But finally he sat up and took the robe from Clint’s offering hand, pulling it awkwardly over his head. “Where can we go that they won’t follow?”

“It’s not that long before sunrise,” Clint said, trying not to watch. The bandage on Tony’s chest was white against olive skin, drawing his attention, and then Clint flushed and turned all the way around. Not that he particularly had any objections to Tony’s skin -- or any pretty person’s skin, really -- but he hadn’t been invited to look at it, either. “We just need to hide. Brother Steven will send them packing.”

Clint wasn’t sure he believed that, although the friar was more muscular and military than any man of the cloth really should be. He wasn’t sure that Steven wouldn’t, in fact, show the bishop’s guards the door. Via the route over the walls.

Tony hummed. “And you’ve found us a place to hide, then?” The cot creaked as he stood up.

“Are you kidding, I just got here, oh my god. I’m good, I’m not psychic. Come on, get up, my lord, we need to move quickly.”

“I’m up,” Tony said. “Lead on, Sir Clinton.” The hint of amusement in his tone was worlds better than that flat, uninterested monotone.

“Sir… Sir Clinton?” Clint rolled that around in his brain, tasting it with his tongue, feeling it. “Well, I’ve certainly had my share of ambition, but a knight? I’m flattered you think so, my lord.” He messed up the bed behind him, trying to disguise the shape of the person who’d been in it. Fortunately Tony didn’t have anything in the way of possessions. Leave no proof behind. He blew out the candles, burned nearly down to the nub anyway. Out the door, and-- “Let’s try this way,” he suggested. Brother Steven hadn’t given him anything like a tour, but it was a castle, there was lots of room. Just needed to make sure they didn’t step on anything too run down.

“Why not?” Tony said, following him through the passageways and corridors. “You’re chivalrous enough.”

Out in the courtyard, he could hear someone yelling for the gate to be raised.

“Don’t be ridiculous, my lord,” Clint said, dragging him across a little parapet toward a door. Doors were good, right? What they really needed was some way into the main keep. “I’m a wanted man. The Bishop, I’m told, wants to personally strangle me.”

“All the more reason to believe you are good and honorable,” Tony said. He caught Clint’s arm and pointed. “There, that’s a servant’s entrance, it should lead us into the main keep.”

So strange, Clint thought, feeling Tony’s warm skin and how suddenly protective he felt, where before, he’d mostly just been terrified of the Bishop’s men and somewhat annoyed with Brother Steven. He tucked his arm around Tony’s shoulders, trying to help the man walk. “Are you feeling all right? Your wound, my lord?” As if Tony had somehow forgotten that someone shot him the day before.

“It hurts,” Tony said matter-of-factly, “but it won’t slow my feet. Don’t worry, I will keep up.”

“Don’t worry, he says,” Clint announced to the air. “As if that’s even remotely possible. The most beautiful man in the world, probably the only person more wanted by the Bishop than me, is telling me not to worry about a whole castle full of guards, with more crossbows, swords… I barely have a dagger, I am not at all suitable--”

Clint snapped his mouth shut so hard he nearly bit off the tip of his tongue. He’d seen one of the guards, and he yanked Tony back around the corner, out of sight.

Tony’s eyes were wide, but he wasn’t panicking.

_That makes one of us_ , Clint thought.

Tony turned to look back the way they’d come, then tugged on Clint’s shirt and pointed. A stairwell, leading up, probably to the parapets.

“Up, up, up--” _Yikes_. Clint was not looking up Tony’s robe, no he was not, absolutely he was not doing it. Father forgive me, he thought urgently, just in case God wasn’t believing him either.

They made the parapet and Tony began to hurry along the wall, crouching low to avoid being seen from other parts of the castle.

Somewhere far below, Clint heard someone scream, and then a distinctly unpleasant thump, and the screaming stopped.

“Brother Steven’s not very meek, is he?” He leaned over to look.

Bad move.

Someone else yelled. “There they are!”

“Shit!” Clint yelped, then “Sorry, God, you know what a weak willed person I am. I take it back.”

God did not strike the guard down who saw them, so apparently Clint was not forgiven today.

Tony yanked at his arm, pulling him back down the parapet. “Quick, this way!”

Another soldier barreled out of the stairway they’d come up.

“Not that way!” Tony twisted, running along the narrow wall.

“There, go--” The guard caught Clint’s ankle as they mounted the ladder, and Clint kicked backward, knocking the guard down, but losing his boot in the tussle. Damn, those were nice boots, too. He’d stolen them fair and square.

“Come on, come on!” Tony climbed onto the top of the tower and reached down to help Clint the last few rungs, which was adorable, because Clint had never needed any help at all climbing anything.

There was… nothing there. No way down. They were at the very top of a tower, looking out over the countryside. Clint swore again, shut the trap door and locked it.

No sun; not quite yet.

“We just need to wait,” Clint said. Surely the Bishop’s guard would see the whole thing was fruitless and would go on his way, to find someone else to harass and terrify. Right? And preferably soon, because Clint was running out of ideas.

“Not too long,” Tony said, looking eastward, where the sky was beginning to pale.

The guard pounded on the trapdoor, almost breaking right through the latch.

“God have mercy!” Tony cried. He stood on the trapdoor, but the guard was freakishly strong, his blows nearly knocking Tony over.

Clint jumped onto the trap and heard the satisfying scream of someone falling down the ladder. Ha! Take that--

“Oh, _crap_ ,” Clint yelped as three feet of steel came sliding up between two boards on the trapdoor. He jumped backward, away from the sword-- bumping Tony--

Tony cursed as he lost his balance, arms windmilling. For an instant, Clint thought he would recover -- but he staggered a step too far and tipped over the edge of the tower wall, just barely catching the edge with his fingertips. “Clint!”

“Tony!” Clint dashed to the lip of the wall, reaching out. He caught Tony’s hand, grabbed on as tight as he could, even though Tony’s weight practically ripped his shoulder right out of the socket. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you!”

“Clint, please!” Tony begged. His legs kicked, trying to find purchase on the stone, and failing.

One of the slats of the trapdoor splintered, and in the instant Clint glanced at it, one of Tony’s hands slipped free. He tried to reach up with it again, but it was on the injured side, unable to lift far. “Oh, God!”

He tried to hold on, tried to pull Tony back up, but the angle was so bad, and the wall was crumbling under them. “Tony, no, no… I’ve… don’t let go.” His hands were sweaty, slippery. The guard was relentless, pounding on the trap door, using his sword to hack out chips of wood.

A fingernail of the sun crossed over the horizon, spreading honey-gold light across the fields, but like honey, it was so _slow_.

“Clint, please, help me, I’m slipping--” Tony tried again to reach up with his other hand, but the very movement made his hand slip farther, too far, until Clint could no longer hold it.

Tony screamed as he fell, and Clint caught one glimpse of his terrified eyes and then--

A beam of sunlight, solid and true, burst through the clouds. Tony’s flailing arms began to move more smoothly, his body shrank, his hair turned into a crest of feathers, and the scream of terror became a defiant cry as the hawk swooped and swerved, curving around the castle walls.

Clint did not have very much time to be grateful, even though he was almost fainting with relief. The trap door was almost completely ruined. With a gulp, Clint leaped over the side of wall, finding a short outcropping to settle on. Stay very still, maybe the man will believe they were never there at all.

Hadn’t he just witnessed a miracle? Surely God would have another one up His sleeve. Clint was one of His favorite creations, right?

The trap door shattered, and Clint could hear the guard’s labored breathing as he climbed up onto the tower roof. All was quiet for several heartbeats, and then--

“There you are.” The guard was leaning over the wall, looking right at Clint.

“Here I am,” Clint admitted. “Lovely sunrise, don’t you think? I just couldn’t wait, came all this way up here just to see it.”

The guard leaned over, looking down at the ground below. “Where’s the other one?” he demanded.

“He flew away,” Clint said, utterly and completely honest for once in his life. He would have to mark the occasion, maybe he was, in fact, turning over a new leaf. Sir Clinton, the gallant.

The guard, unfairly, did not believe him. He smashed his sword against the side of the wall. “Where is he?”

“God’s truth, _he flew away_!” Clint cringed. There was nowhere to go, nothing he could do. At least, he thought, his last act had been one of selfless bravery. He expected God to take notice when he arrived at the pearly gates. Maybe even a parade. That would be nice.

_Thunk!_ The expected blow didn’t come. Clint looked up warily. There was an arrow between the guard’s eyes. As Clint watched, he fell backward, toppling like a stately tree.

Where... Clint turned, tracking the path the arrow must have taken--

On a small outcropping, looking up at the castle, was Captain Barnes. The man saluted him, crossbow held in one hand. The hawk -- Tony, of course -- circled and landed on Barnes’ outstretched arm.

“Thank you,” Clint murmured. “Thank you. It always pays to tell the truth, Lord. I see that now. I’m just going to-- hope this ledge stays stable, and then I’m going to go thank Captain Barnes, the instrument of Your will.”


	9. As I Desire

Bucky had thought, in all his life, he would never again be able to look Steve Rogers in the face and ask him why. _Why had you been so stupid? How could you not have known?_

Even with Tony safe on his wrist, he wanted to draw his bow and shoot the man, right there.

He took a deep breath.

“I’m astonished you’re still alive,” Bucky said. He didn’t know if he was more amazed that Steve had been able to make a life in this decrepit castle, or that the Bishop hadn’t sent men out to kill the friar before this. Because Steve _knew_. He knew what the bishop had done. He knew. And Killian didn’t take kindly to those who _knew_ things. Or maybe he was just shocked that Steve hadn’t knocked the castle on his own head. “There were times I’d wanted to kill you myself.”

“There were times I might have let you,” Steve admitted. “But God has stayed your hand for a purpose. He has forgiven me for my pride and my foolishness.”

“God abandoned us all long ago,” Bucky said. “But, for this--” He lifted his arm and Tony shuffled to maintain his grip, talons not as tight as usual. He’d been hurt and hurt badly. Could have died.

Bucky swallowed hard, trying not to think of it. What good would it do to think of Tony, dead and cold and pale somewhere? What good did it do for Tony to remain alive? They were but half-human, half themselves. Half alive, and always apart.

He kept hoping God did have a plan, but lately, he’d had darker thoughts. That God’s ineffable plan, whatever it was, would end with all of them dead.

“For this, I thank you.” It was harder to say than he might have imagined.

He’d trusted Steve. Believed in him.

And had been betrayed.

“God abandons none of us,” Steve said gently. “He has shown me the way, the path we must walk to break the curse!”

That much was supposed to be true; all the stories and legends. Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Tell me, then,” Bucky said. Perhaps if it was true, if there was some way to break this curse, to live, fully, as humans... He would give his own life for Tony to be free of it, if nothing else.

“Three days,” Steve said, coming closer, looking excited and happy. “In three days, in Aquila, there will be a day without a night, and a night without a day. If you confront the bishop, together, as men, then the curse will be broken!”

Bucky blinked. Tipped his head as if he hadn’t heard clearly. “What?” It didn’t make sense. There was no night without day. No day without night. For as long as they both shall live. What was he supposed to do, kill himself as a man and have Tony drag his corpse before the bishop? “That’s nonsense.”

“It’s true,” Steve protested. “God has shown me! You must believe me, Buck. We were _friends_.”

“We were friends, that was true,” Bucky said. “But I don’t need to believe you. I don't think God showed you anything; He has driven you mad with your own guilt.”

He put his heels to Widow’s flanks and she moved without protest.

Steve protested, because of course he did. But Bucky ignored it. Tony didn’t seem bothered to leave the man behind, either.

Barton was waiting at the bottom of the path, watching warily as he approached. “So you’re leaving, then,” he said. “You and the Comté de Hawk.”

“Comté de Hawk?” Bucky said, voice suddenly wondering. What a delightful thing to call Tony. “Yes, yes, we’re leaving. Headed for Aquila. Same as before.”

Barton had earned his freedom; if he didn’t want to help, he’d more than made up for that lack of courage. Saving Tony, bringing him here, and then, on the tower-- Bucky tried to slow his heart. Tony hadn’t fallen to the ground below. He was fine. Fine and on Bucky’s arm. Bucky could ask no more of Barton than that.

“Ah.” Barton appeared to consider that, and then nodded. “It so happens, I’m traveling in that direction myself. They say it’s much safer not to travel alone.”

“Well, then you’d better get your things, right away,” Bucky said. He smiled, maybe for the first time in years, an _actual_ smile, not just a polite turn of lip or an angry sneer. He could feel it, the way it crinkled the skin around his eyes, the way it made his load lighter, somehow. They might not say it, he might never be able to say it, but somehow, without meaning to, he’d made a _friend_. Not an ally, not a confidante, but an actual friend. “I won’t wait for you.”

“No, of course not,” Barton -- or perhaps, finally, _Clint_ \-- said. “I would never think it.” He grinned and dashed back into the castle, returning only a moment later with a small bag thrown over his shoulder.

Bucky stroked Tony’s feathers, fond and soft and loving, until Clint was back down the hill. “Comté de Hawk. What do you think, my love? Does it suit?”

Tony chirred and nibbled delicately at his fingertips.

It would be well. If God would not let the curse end in this life, Bucky would kill the bishop, end that evil, and gain his reward in Heaven. They would have the next life, if they could not have this one.

*

The wagon reeked of blood and decay, of disease and filth. 

Vanko wasn’t much better and Killian pressed his nosegay to his face, breathing deeply. He prodded open the secret sheath in his staff, revealing a wickedly sharp blade. His weapon of last resort. But he could not touch these things, this filth, with his hands.

Using the blade, he turned over skin after skin. Grey, brown, black. One that was reddish in color and would look lovely adorning the floor in his lover’s bedchamber. His heart leapt several times at a glimpse of white fur, only to be disappointed when it was merely a patch.

“These are all worthless,” he snarled. How dare Vanko disappoint him this way? Did he not realize who Killian was? What Killian could do? “ _Useless_.”

Vanko scowled. “There are no more wolves within ten leagues of Aquila, your grace,” he said. “What am I to do?”

Killian sighed. Well, Vanko was not, precisely, trustworthy. He did not fear the bishop, which made him stupid. But he was also easily manipulated. Killian could tell the truth, or some portion of the truth, and have Vanko executed later.

“You must look for a man,” Killian said. “The most beautiful man you have ever seen, with skin of finest porcelain, hair black as night. This man travels by night, only by night. His sun is the moon. His name is Anthony. Find him -- he has no home, no friends, he will be wandering. Inns and barns, stables and on the cold ground. Find him, and you will find the wolf that travels with him. A white wolf. The wolf-- that loves him.”

Vanko was staring at him uneasily. “Anthony,” he repeated, and Killian was hard-pressed not to strike the man for allowing Anthony’s name into his foul mouth.

But he did, after all, need Vanko to kill the wolf. “Anthony.”

*

Clint let his step lag a bit and glanced behind him at the winding trail. It took a moment of searching, but then his sharp eyes picked out the wagon carrying Brother Steve, following in their wake.

Steve’s donkey was slower than Widow, but Barnes had to travel at Clint’s pace, or leave him behind. And Barnes wouldn’t leave him behind. Barnes needed him to get into the city undetected.

He glanced up at the sky and then jogged ahead until he’d caught up with Barnes again. “It’s going to rain soon,” he observed, as if Barnes couldn’t see for himself the heavy, dark clouds sliding their way. _Have mercy_ , he begged silently. He didn’t want to sleep outdoors in such a storm, as cold as it was.

“It will be sunset, soon,” Barnes said. “Not much time left, and dismal sleeping. Best to get inside, if you can.”

“Thank you,” Clint breathed, then paused, glancing back at the dark clouds obscuring the horizon. “How can you tell?”

“After so many years,” Barnes replied, “it would be strange if I could not.” He shuddered, looking up at the sky. 

Clint supposed the captain had a point. He scanned the road ahead of him and spotted a thin haze of smoke. “I think there’s a crossroads inn just beyond the hill.”

“Good, then,” Barnes said. His clothes would be fresher if he got out of them before the change. “Take Comte de Hawk and find shelter. Get a meal. There’s money in my saddlebags. I’ll find you in the morning.” He wiggled his wrist a little, and after a disdainful squawk, Tony made the switch, flapping his wings in Clint’s hair.

“You can count on me, sir,” Clint promised, even as he ducked a bit to try to stop Tony from smacking him with those wings.

Widow glared at him as he gathered up her reins, but consented to let him lead her down the road. Clint glanced back, once, to see Barnes still standing there on the side of the road, watching them go.

Barnes looked lonely, Clint thought, and opened his mouth to say something -- he didn’t know what -- and was abruptly cut off by a flash of lightning and a crack of thunder, nearly simultaneous. “Right. The inn. We’d better make haste.”

Tony made several soft, displeased noises on Clint’s wrist. Fortunately, the rain held off long enough for them to reach the barn and stables outside the inn. Which was warm and thick with the smell of horses. A search of the Captain’s saddlebags showed that, in this morning’s adventures, something had been forgotten.

There were no spare clothes for Tony.

Clint grumbled. “The things I do for you two,” he said. “You should be grateful. I’m a good-looking, intelligent young man. I don’t have to throw away my prospects, do-gooding for you.” 

Tony fluttered off Clint’s wrist to perch on the door of the stall, cocking his head at Clint curiously.

“Can you even understand me, Comte de Hawk? Nevermind, you can’t answer me anyway. Stay here, I’ll get you something to wear. But don’t ask where it came from, okay?”

The hawk spread his wings and fluttered his wings as if shaking them off, which was probably all the answer Clint was going to get.

There were several wagons tied outside the inn that looked promising, piled with goods and crates and barrels.

He passed over what looked like personal cases and belongings until he found what he was looking for; a knee length red tunic with simple yellow and blue embroidered borders, a pair of woolen hose and boots, with a gray cloak. They would look nice on Tony, Clint thought. He grabbed another tunic, similar, but not exactly the same, a blue nearly dark enough to be purple, with grey embroidery. They’d attract less attention if they were dressed like they were of the same social class. Also, Clint’s pants had some holes in them from the tussle with the guards.

“I’m counting this as one theft, my Lord,” Clint told God, matter of fact. “So I only have to confess once to it. And perhaps, not really at all. I mean, after all, You are listening to me right now. That’s what they say. And if You do forgive me, Comte de Hawke will not have transformed yet, because that is more temptation than I believe I’m willing to resist at this moment. Thank You very much for your kind attention, my Lord.”

The hawk was no longer perched on the stable door when Clint made his way back into the barn. He looked up at the barn rafters, searching.

“Clint?” Tony was peering around the edge of the stall, well-hidden. “Is that you?”

God was decidedly not on Clint’s side today. He could see shoulders, throat, and the edge of Tony’s hip. “So, uh, I have clothes,” Clint said, and not entirely thinking, took several steps into the barn, holding up the bundle of cloth, then all but dropping it in his haste to back away. “So, I’ll just. Leave this here for you, and-- go over there.” He pointed toward the stall that Widow had appropriated. “And change. Over there where I can’t see you-- er, so we can’t see.. For privacy. That.”

“Thank you,” Tony said softly, smiling. Clint very determinedly did not look as he retreated to his chosen spot. Did not listen to the sound of Tony’s bare feet on the straw-strewn floor, the rustle of the clothes...

Well, maybe he listened a little.

Things were quiet for a bit, and then Tony said, “How... how is he?”

“Alive,” Clint said, because there had been a rather lot of shooting and hacking at people with swords, which tended to increase the number of corpses around. “Full of hope.” Which might have been an exaggeration, but really. People were much happier, he’d discovered, when they thought other people were happier. Also, when they were well fed and had a roof over their head, and nice clothing. All of which Tony had right now, so why not lie a little bit and let him be happy? “He left you in my care.”

Tony hummed. “I suppose so. Thank you for the clothes. They’re very pretty.” He sounded tired, almost.

“You’re very welcome,” Clint said. “And I’m telling you, the Captain said I was to take care of you. He said, tell you that I spoke with his voice, and you would do whatever I desire.” Immediately, Clint wished he could capture the words back and stuff them away, because while that was, in fact, what he meant, it was not what he’d meant to actually _say_.

Tony let out a soft huff of a laugh. “Did he, indeed?” And then, before Clint could even open his mouth, Tony’s hand came up. “No, don’t... don’t swear it.” He smiled, a little easier than before, Clint thought, as he scuffed his feet against the straw on the floor. “Well, go on, then, tell me what it is that you desire?”

“I desire that you accompany me to the inn, that we have a hot dinner, a cup of sweet wine, and perhaps, we dance to a merry tune,” Clint said. “I will engage not to get too drunk, and to rent us a place to sleep. Wouldn’t it be nice, my lord, to sleep on a soft bed for a change?”

“I’m not sure I’ve truly slept since the curse,” Tony admitted. “A nap, here or there, but I have so few hours, anymore. It seems a sin to waste them in sleep.”

“You and the Captain both,” Clint said. “No wonder you’re both so cranky. But truly, my lord, we cannot travel tonight, the weather--” As if on cue, thunder crashed across the sky, loud enough to drown the patter of rain against the barn’s roof. “And you’ve been injured. Some sleep will do you a world of good.”

“Perhaps,” Tony allowed. “I’m not sure I’m able. But a hot dinner and a cup of sweet wine -- that sounds like a good start to the evening, at least. I don’t know about dancing. It’s been quite some time for that, too.”

The first strains of music were audible from the inn. “Shall we then? A little practice?” Clint could dance, dancing was a thing anyone could learn, rich or poor, and it was delightful and charming. A good dancer could always find a warm bed and a cup of wine after a festival. He put one hand behind his back and extended the other to Tony with a flourishing bow.

Tony hesitated, but he was smiling, and a moment later, he put his hand in Clint’s and returned the bow. “I should be most pleased, Sir Barton.”


	10. More Useful than Old Cheese

They were dancing, of a sort -- a simple country thing, energetic and lively. There was no one else to take a turn down the line, so they never paused, just whirled and skipped, backing away and coming together and laughing, _laughing--_

How long had it been since Tony had laughed, truly laughed, filled with such simple joy?

Years. It seemed decades, truly. He and Bucky had laughed after they were married in such haste, laughed as they made their plans on the road to Rome, certain the bishop could do no worse to them. A handful of days, that was all, before they’d learned just how much worse the bishop could do.

But Clint spun Tony around as the music in the inn played on, his arm warm where it was linked with Tony’s, and the tunics he’d stolen for them were rather elegant, and Clint looked delighted and sweet in the light of the lantern--

Tony tripped over his own feet in shock at the way his thoughts were tending, went reeling across the stable and landed in a pile of hay. He loved _Bucky_ , he did, and his love was as strong as it had ever been. But he craved a kind touch, the warmth of affection and comradeship. Was it any wonder he’d fallen into flirting with the charming young thief?

“It may have been longer than I care to admit,” Tony admitted ruefully. “Perhaps dancing is not quite yet the wisest course of action.” But he reached up to take Clint’s hand, let Clint pull him to his feet.

“Not at all, that was wonderful,” Clint said. There was a flash of something in his gaze. “Perhaps it will go smoother after we eat and drink. If enough people are drinking and making merry, it won’t matter much if you stumble. And this time, I _will_ catch you.”

“We shall see,” Tony said. It was only a little harmless flirtation, after all. Bucky wouldn’t begrudge him a dance or two. And it would be safer, really, if the other people in the inn thought they were a couple.

Tony picked up a coarse woolen saddle blanket and spread it over his head to shield him from the rain, beckoning for Clint to join him in its dubious shelter. The inn was, at least, relatively close to the stable -- close enough for them to hear the music over the rain, anyway -- so hopefully they wouldn’t get _too_ soaked.

“The Captain left us a whole handful of coin,” Clint said. “I can’t decide if I want to stuff my face, or get falling down drunk. What do you think, my lord, shall we be so festive we can barely walk tomorrow?”

Tony was just phrasing his answer when he walked right into something wet and tall and _furry--_

A wolf. A _dead_ wolf, eyes dull and head hanging lifelessly. _Several_ dead wolves, blood dripping from their fur, and one of them was pale, fur bright against the darkness of the night, and it wasn’t Bucky, it _wasn’t_ , but there was a wolf-hunter here, and Bucky was roaming the darkness, unheeding. 

Tony’s hand clenched on the wolfpelts, feeling the damp, coarse fur and the soft underfur blindly, unable to look away from those glassy eyes and limp jaws. Bucky. He had to warn Bucky.

He tore away from Clint’s side with a cry of denial, dashing back into the stables. Widow gave him a dubious look, but Tony barely even patted her neck before he was pulling himself up onto her back. “We have to warn him,” he said, feeling dizzy and feverish. “We have to.”

Widow seemed to feel his urgency; she didn’t dance around and pretend to protest his seat. The instant he kicked at her sides, she burst into motion, flinging them out of the stall and the stable, barely avoiding running down Clint as they hurtled toward the trees.

“My lord, wait--” Clint cried out, almost impossibly distant already, it seemed, then, “Anthony, get back here right now--”

“Anthony?” the wolf hunter laughed, a cruel, ugly sound. “ _Anthony_ , is it?”

Tony pushed them both from his thoughts. _Bucky. Where are you, my love?_ The wolf would be farther out, not wanting to come so close to so many people. Tony laid low against Widow’s neck, eyes searching the darkness for the briefest flash of snow-white fur.

There was nothing. Woods and wet and the occasional flare of lightning, the splintering noise afterward.

Tony searched, but he couldn’t see much of anything, and Widow was shying, rearing up and being decidedly uncooperative.

In the aching silence after another crash of thunder, Tony heard a thud, another one, and then the snapping sound, metal on metal, of a wolf-trap. In the distance, the wolf-hunter laughed again. “Anthony, pretty bird, come out, come out wherever you are.”

The sound of his name in the wolf-hunter’s throat filled Tony with rage.

He _knew_. Somehow, that horrible, greasy-looking man _knew_ that there was a wolf that followed Tony, knew Tony’s _name_. It had to be the bishop who had sent him, or the bishop’s cronies.

He stopped, threw Widow’s reins over a branch, and slid to the forest floor.

In the distance -- a wolf’s howl. _Bucky_. Tony groped in the saddlebags and found a knife, long and thin. It would have to do. He started to move toward the wolf, then paused. No. He turned and began to move cautiously toward the wolf hunter and the traps.

Another thud, another trap snapping. This one closer to Tony’s vulnerable legs. He jumped, startled.

“I can see you,” the voice taunted. “Go on, then. Call for him. Call for your wolf to come and save you.”

Tony clenched his knife more tightly, turning in slow circles, looking for the hunter. “I don’t need him to save me from the likes of _you,_ ” he spat. “Come out! Show yourself, you coward!”

“Oh, there you are, my beauty, yes,” the wolf-hunter’s voice turned reverent, different from the mocking speech before. “Look at you. Just look at you.”

Tony turned, and there was Bucky, outlined against the hill, a proud visage in white, tipped by the blue reflections of the storm. Bigger than any wolf should be. 

“Bucky!” He tried to shoo the big wolf away. “It’s not safe here! Go on, go away! I’ll find you later!”

Tony knew, as a hawk, that he didn’t know words. They didn’t make sense, he could never find meaning in them, and that was even when he was particularly bothering to _try_. Mostly he wasn’t. As a bird, he didn’t care. He knew his name, he knew his lover’s voice, and he knew he had to stay with the man. That was all he knew.

Bucky knew his name, as a wolf. He knew who Tony was, and that there was nothing that should keep them apart.

As soon as Tony called out, the wolf turned and trotted toward him, entirely unalarmed.

“No!”

“There we go, a little closer,” the hunter said, and suddenly Tony could see the hunter, ragged hair standing up all over the place, his broad chest covered with wolf pelts. He raised a crossbow--

“No!” Tony dove at the man, threw the knife, desperate to knock his aim aside. “You utter _bastard_!”

The man stumbled, fell--

There was a sickening crunch noise of metal against flesh, and he began bucking, struggling on the ground, screaming without being able to scream, fingers clawing desperately at his own throat.

Tony back away, disgusted, horrified, relieved.

What a well-deserved death.

Bucky sat down on his haunches, lifted his muzzle and howled.

It was deafening from so close, and Tony didn’t care. He flung himself at the wolf, buried his face in its thick fur, and sobbed in relief.

Bucky let himself be hugged with that resigned tenseness; the wolf didn’t understand, the same way Tony couldn’t understand when he was a hawk. He knew the draw, the inescapable bond. But it wasn’t the same. It would never be the same.

“Tony--” a voice cried out, “Tony, where are you? Just, you know, yell if you’re okay?”

Clint.

Tony wiped the tears from his face and stood up. “Over here!” he called. “Be careful, I don’t know how many traps that bastard set.”

“What a _terrible_ night,” Clint said. There was some rustling and then -- _crack!_ “Found one. Don’t worry, that was a stick. Are you hurt?”

“No,” Tony said, resolutely not looking at the dead hunter. “No, we’re fine.”

“All right, then,” Clint said. “Here, I’ll lead and then you and Widow, right? We’ll all go in a line, step where I step-- oh, that’s just about the most unpleasant thing I’ve ever seen, not going to look at that anymore, turning around, yes, that’s exactly what we’re doing.” He prodded at the ground with the stick, making sure their way was clear back to the road.

Tony smiled, watching Clint industriously testing for traps, and curled his fingers in Bucky’s fur. “He’s actually quite clever,” he told the wolf. “I see why you like him.”

“Don’t be silly, my lord. The Captain doesn’t like me,” Clint said. “He thinks I’m slightly more useful than old cheese.”

Tony scoffed. “He likes you. He just doesn’t like to admit it.”

“He should relax about it a little, then,” Clint commented. “Big bad Captain with his ridiculously oversized war horse and his ancestor’s sword. What difference does it make if he has a few friends, he won’t be any less terrifying.”

Tony laughed. “You must promise not to leave us,” he said. “We’ve had so few friends. No one to help us, until now.”

“You have more friends than you know,” Clint said. “But if you promise you’d miss me, I promise to pretend to believe you.”

“I would miss you dreadfully,” Tony said, and thought that he wasn’t even exaggerating. It was... liberating, to be able to talk to someone who knew. Not to have to hide.

“Good thing for us that mad wolf-hunter is not going to come back, looking for his cart,” Clint admitted. “I ran it off the side of the road before I came looking for you. Don’t growl at me, Captain, it seemed the best way to get rid of the man if he circled back. Also, he was carrying quite a bit of money. Which I would bet my britches that he got from the Bishop, so there’s something for you in a bit of repayment. A very little bit, I imagine.”

Cold anger washed through Tony, more bitter than the winter wind. “What Killian did to us can _never_ be repaid.”

“No, no, of course not, my lord,” Clint said, “I didn’t mean-- I just meant that I don’t always consider where the money comes from, when it comes to me. I’m a thief, I don’t apologize for that. I’m just saying, well, with this money, _you_ don’t have to be.”

Tony sighed. “No, I know what you mean. It’s just hard to be rational when that man comes up.” He made himself smile a little, and patted Clint’s shoulder. “I shall depend on you to help me.”

Clint took Tony’s hand, held it for a moment. “I would do-- I would do anything for you. For the Captain. For either of you. I’m-- I’m no one, you know that. Nothing. And you both-- if you asked me to jump in front of a canon for you, my lord. Tony. I would do that. I swear.”

“Don’t do that,” Tony said, but he couldn’t help smiling at Clint’s earnest sincerity. “I’d miss you. And so would he. You’re not _no one_ , Clint. You’re a good man. And you’re our friend.”

“Well, then, for the sake of your good friend, who is very tired of this cold, wet winter, let’s go back to the inn, get a room, and get warm. I’m quite sure I’m going to leave my toes just sort of laying around here, I’m so cold.”

“I should hate for that to happen,” Tony agreed. “Back to the inn, then.” He glanced down at Bucky, walking placidly at his side. The wolf would stop, when he decided he’d gotten close enough to the people, but Tony found himself longing for an actual bed, after so many sleepless nights and naps caught in barns and wrapped in a blanket under the stars.

Bucky followed them most of the way into town, but then licked Tony’s hand and vanished into the wood as he saw other travelers headed into the inn.

“Well, I should love to try to talk the innkeeper into needing a room for my pet wolf,” Clint said, “but perhaps not tonight. Here, pull your hood up and keep that pretty face of yours hidden while I acquire rooms.”

Clint drew himself up like the lord that Tony knew he absolutely wasn’t and went over to demand accommodations.

Tony lingered in the shadows, watching the people with a mild sense of awe. Bucky had kept them steered away from too many people, worried about having their curse discovered. Tony had somewhat reluctantly bowed to that wisdom, laid out for him in a letter Bucky had left for him, but he missed being around people. Even just watching them -- that group, there, singing in their cups. Those over there, taunting each other over a game of dice. The pair of lovers near the fire, blind to all else aside from each other.

Watching them left an ache of nostalgia and longing in Tony’s chest, and he turned away before it could turn into something sharper.

“So, uh,” Clint said, coming back to Tony’s side. “I told the innkeeper we needed a _private_ room-- I didn’t think you wanted anyone to see you in the morning. And that was fine, but I must say… well, there’s um…”

Good heavens, was Clint actually _blushing?_ Tony hadn’t thought the thief had a sense of shame. “Spit it out,” he nudged.

“There’s only one bed,” Clint said. “He thinks you’re my-- erm. Spouse.”

“Oh, is that all?” Tony slipped his arm through Clint’s. He had to admit, he was rather enjoying watching Clint get flustered. “Lead on, then, _darling_.”

* * *

Clint might have wanted to sleep late. Or sleep at all, really, but waking up with an angry, hungry hawk in the bed with him was not conducive to grumbling, rolling over, and slipping back into sleep. He’d finally managed to get to sleep somewhat past midnight at least, too hyper aware of Tony’s every breath, every twitch, every sigh--

Was it possible to be jealous of someone who was cursed?

Probably.

Because Clint absolutely was.

Tony was-- there really just weren’t words. Perfection.

But he was also annoyed and shedding feathers and occasionally screeching in Clint’s ear, so rather than deal with it any longer, he shoved the window out and hoped no one was looking. “Go, go-- find breakfast or whatever. Have fun. Shoo.”

Tony launched himself from the window with a screech and flew toward the forest without so much as a backward glance.

“You’re welcome,” Clint muttered, gathering up his things. And Tony’s things, because really, Tony ought to have clothes of his own, and not the Captain’s cast offs. They made Tony look like a toddler who’d stolen his dad’s jacket.

On the plus side, getting up at just after dawn meant the innkeeper wasn’t really paying attention and didn’t seem to notice that Clint had gone to bed with a man, and come downstairs with a bundle of clothing under one arm. He left the man some coins and stole a loaf of bread on his way out the door.

Never hurt to keep in practice, right?

He loaded the pilfered clothing into Widow’s saddlebags. “I wonder where the Captain’s off to, today,” he said. Widow allowed herself to be saddled, though she stepped on Clint’s toes four times while he struggled to get the bridle on -- at least God had been kind enough to let him steal a pair of boots, instead of soft leather shoes -- and positively refused to let Clint mount up.

“Fine, you filthy strumpet, but I’m telling the Captain how uncooperative you are,” Clint said. He took the reins and limped out of town. Toward Aquila, because that seemed the best, fastest way to find the Captain.

It was shaping up to be a bright and beautiful day, which promised a freezing night. He hoped they’d be able to find another inn at the end of the day, or at least a barn with some warm straw.

The sun was barely a handspan over the horizon when he spotted the Captain making his way down the road. Barnes was moving at a decent clip for a man afoot. “Good morrow, Captain!”

Barnes muttered something that didn’t entirely sound like a friendly greeting, but Clint might feel the same way if he spent all his time absolutely having to wake up at dawn. 

“You look like something the cat dragged in,” Barnes said. He rummaged through the saddle bags, found the loaf of bread that Clint had legitimately stolen, and pilfered half of it. 

“It was an... eventful night,” Clint said. “Nothing I couldn’t handle, of course, but still -- not restful.”

Barnes didn’t look nearly impressed enough, all things considered. But then Comte de Hawke appeared, a brilliant speck against the sky, and Barnes raised his arm with a sharp cry.

The hawk circled once and then dove downward, wings beating at the last minute to slow himself, and-- 

Shot right past Barnes to land on the arm Clint raised in instinctive protection.

Barnes turned around, then looked back as if there might possibly be _another_ hawk that was going to land on his arm instead, then back to Clint. “Tell me about this ‘eventful night,’” Barnes invited, his voice as steely and sharp as his blade.

Clint bounced his arm a little, trying to unseat Tony. “Go on,” he urged, “go to your love.” He gave Barnes his best confident smile. Not that he was feeling at all confident at the moment. “My night? Well. There was the storm, of course, so I had to make haste to find shelter for us. And then we ran into some trouble on our way to the inn--”

“An inn? You took Tony to an _inn_?” Barnes’ eyebrow went way up. Dangerously up. Which was made even more dangerous by the fact that the hawk had practically sealed himself to Clint’s arm and was barely bobbing up and down, no matter how frantically Clint waved his arm. 

“Well not _first,_ ” Clint said. “First we were in the stable, and then we changed clothes, and _then--_ ” He snapped his mouth shut, realizing too late what his words sounded like.

“You changed clothes together?” Barnes’ face went as dark as his leather armor. Clint was going to die, that was what was going to happen here, and his only consolation was that _maybe_ Tony had promised he would be missed.

“Not _together!_ ” Clint squeaked.

“So you left him alone?”

“No, of course not!”

“So you did get undressed together--”

Tony shrieked, obviously unnerved by all the jostling and yelling.

“No!” Clint had to stop walking, to smooth his hand over Tony’s feathers, calming the poor creature. “There, it’s all right...”

“You are going to tell me everything that happened--”

Tony’s neck jerked and he pecked Barnes’ hand sharply. As clear as any animal could actually speak words. _Leave him be_.

Clint sighed and looked up to meet Barnes’ eyes. “Look. He’s the kindest, most beautiful man to ever walk the earth,” he said. “I can’t say I haven’t had my thoughts and fantasies. But that’s all they are. The instant he thought you were in danger, he forgot I even existed. He loves you, Captain. If I thought I could ever have even a tenth of what the two of you share, I’d take the curse willingly.”

Barnes took a deep breath, and Clint prepared himself to get smacked, if not stabbed outright, then… “Did you know that wolves and hawks mate for life? The Bishop didn’t even leave us that. Not even that much.”

It was an injustice, that was true. Clint nodded sadly, unable to summon any more words.

They turned to resume the journey, and Widow pulled up short.

Blocking the road with a run-down old wagon was Brother Steven.

“You still intend to kill the bishop,” Brother Steven observed softly, his eyes on Barnes.


	11. How to Cage a Wolf

“You’re the one I ought to kill, _old friend_ ,” Bucky said, knowing his voice was dripping malice and not even ashamed of it. “And I will, if you don’t go back to your books and your castle and leave us alone. Stop following us.”

“Then let me lead you,” Steve said. “In two days, you could stand before the bishop with Tony at your side and break this curse, and see it turn back on its author. The Evil One will claim his own, and you and Tony will be free. Is that not vengeance enough?”

No. No more and no more and _no more_. He was done with patience and suffering and “How dare you try to stretch out our suffering, even one more day, to ease your guilt and your burden? They’re yours, pick them up and carry them. I will be in Aquila tomorrow, and I will either kill the Bishop, or I will die. And in either case, this will be over.”

“Tell him!” Steve demanded, shifting his gaze to Clint. “Tell him to give me a chance!”

Clint shifted uneasily, unable to meet Bucky’s gaze. “What’s one more day?” he wondered, all false casualness. “More or less.”

Bucky would never reveal how much like being stabbed it felt. “You, too, huh?” He should have known better, he should have known. No one could be trusted. There was Tony and himself, and that was it. Them against the world, and it had always been that way. The Bishop could barely have cursed them more than God Himself had. Always together, but always alone.

“It’s only one day,” Clint repeated. “You can kill the bishop as easily then as you could tomorrow.”

The last tiny human corner of his soul shriveled up and died. “Stay here, then, with this fool. You two can drink and tell lies. That’s what you’re good at, isn’t it?”

Clint didn’t respond to that, though his expression was stricken. He watched in silence as Bucky turned Widow to go around Steve’s cart.

“Wait, I’m coming with you!” Clint said, suddenly scrambling into motion.

“No, you’re not,” Bucky said. “I’ll have too many at my front to worry about guarding my back.” He pretended not to see the hurt and stunned shock on Clint’s face. It didn’t matter. 

It was for the best.

He nudged Widow’s flanks, just enough to walk away, trying not to listen to the two of them, huddled behind him. Human in a way that he no longer was.

He’d gone maybe two dozen paces when a rustle of wings sounded and Tony landed on his shoulder, nipping thoughtfully at his hair. For a long while, maybe more than an hour, Bucky didn’t even know, he thought about turning around. About asking Steve to explain what he meant. About hope and need and love-- if there was something that could be done to break the curse and if he really meant that.

But Bucky’s heart was exhausted from breaking and his head was filled only with thoughts of revenge. He didn’t know how to nurture hope. Not anymore. That was over.

By the time he did turn, he couldn’t see them anymore and it was just as well. He wouldn’t run back and look like a fool.

Tony followed his gaze and let out a soft, almost mournful warble.

“It’s all right, beloved,” Bucky said. “One way or the other, it’s almost over.”

* * *

“My lord?” Clint’s voice was soft, not so confident as usual, but hesitant, like he thought Tony might throw something at his head.

“Clint!” Tony’s mood brightened considerably. He’d been sad when he awoke and found the thief absent. Tony had grown quite used to having someone to talk to. Someone who would make him laugh.

He’d thought the previous night’s tangle with the wolf-hunter had made Clint rethink associating with Tony and Bucky. But now here he was.

“Clint,” Tony said warmly. “I’m glad to see you. It seemed strange, finding you gone.”

“I wasn’t sure,” he said, scuffing his toe over some of the new fallen snow, “if we would have another night together.”

Tony blinked. “Why not? What’s happened?”

“Well, we have a bit of a plan,” Clint said. “And if it works-- well, there won’t be any more need for traveling. Of course, if it’s a terrible plan, we’ll all be dead, so it won’t matter. Does seem to hold with the kind of luck we’ve been having, wouldn’t you say?”

“We?” Tony echoed. “A plan? You and Bucky made a plan?”

“No, my lord,” Clint said, and he gestured. Over the hill, riding in a creaky old wagon, was Brother Steven. “Me and him. The Captain wouldn’t listen. He’s so angry, my lord, and he loves you so much. We might have to do something a little underhanded. For his own good. If you’ll-- will you trust me, this one last time?”

Tony had to think about it. That Bucky was angry was hardly a surprise. And Tony had come to be very fond of Clint. Brother Steven... Tony looked past Clint at the friar. “This is your plan, isn’t it?” he asked.

Brother Steven had been one of Bucky’s most trusted friends, and he’d betrayed them. Trusting him was... a lot to ask.

“Will you let me show you what I’ve learned? You were a scholar once, maybe you can see what I’ve seen. Watching the heavens for a sign from God, I found something else. I found a way, Tony. I promise you, I found the way.” Steve got down from the cart. “Hear me out, please. And then you can send me on my way, if you wish and I’ll go.”

Unfair, appealing to Tony’s intellect like that, when he’d been permitted so few chances to use it, these last years. He sighed and pulled Bucky’s cloak more closely around him, warding off the bitter cold. “I’ll listen,” he agreed. “Tell me what you’ve found.”

Brother Steven finished explaining, drawing marks on the ground, using rocks to demonstrate his observations. “Do you believe me?”

Tony wasn’t sure he believed, but there was too much that made sense.

And in the end, well, it was only one day’s delay, as Clint had pointed out. Bucky might be angry, but he wouldn’t be harmed. And if it was a chance, no matter how slender... “We’ll try it,” he agreed, and the sound of Bucky’s howl pulled his head up and around. “You’ll have to be quick.”

“We’re going to have to trap him,” Clint said. “Delay him a day. Dig a pit, keep him in it. You-- you get to be bait, won’t that be fun?”

Tony smirked. “More fun than the last time,” he admitted. “Go dig your pit. Make it deep; he can jump pretty high.”

Brother Steven grabbed two shovels from the back of the wagon. “I saw a good spot-- just that way,” he said. “If we can get Bucky to cross the ice, it’s a very narrow path.”

The two men went to dig the hole, and Tony found himself staring down at the circles and lines, with their rocks.

Could it really be true?

Could any of it?

It was true that the Bishop, that Killian had called upon Unholy powers, had struck a bargain with creatures so far out of his bailiwick that could do such horrible things. It had seemed a horrible nightmare the first time he’d changed-- a nightmare that never ceased, even if Tony did, after a while, get used to it.

The night seemed to crawl, marked as it was by the panting and bickering of Clint and Steve as they dug the pit. Every so often, Bucky howled. It was a drawn-out, mournful sound, and Tony went rigid as he listened to it, trying to judge whether Bucky was circling back toward them yet, and wondering what lingering sense of loss and pain must linger in the animal’s breast to make it so sad.

It lacked perhaps an hour before dawn when the howls became noticeably closer. Tony didn’t know if the pit was deep enough to hold Bucky, but it would have to do. “Quickly,” he urged. “He’s coming!” Tony stepped into place, putting the pit between him and the ice.

“You are ridiculously well-built for a priest,” Clint complained, groaning as Brother Steven used him as a ladder to climb out of the pit. “Are you sure you’re not a knight-errant on the side. Like, your night job? How does a man of God have an ass like that?” Clint squeaked as Brother Steven swatted him.

“Blasphemous ninnycock,” Brother Steven scolded. “It’s a wonder if you ever make it to Heaven that God will just boot you out again like you deserve.”

“God has better sense than that,” Clint said, and he grabbed Brother Steven’s leg and climbed up over him, nimble as a cat. “Don’t dawdle now.”

“Quickly, hide!” Tony said, rolling his eyes at their bickering. He watched the lake, standing tall, waiting, a dark splash against the snow.

Bucky trotted out of the trees and spotted him, and Tony wondered, after all, if this was the right thing to be doing. Bucky trusted him; how could he use that trust? He glanced over at Steve and Clint, hiding behind Widow.

The wolf never even hesitated, he trotted right across the lake, eager to touch, to be petted and talked to--

There was a crack that echoed like thunder and Bucky disappeared into a hole in the ice with a shocked _yip_.

“Bucky!” Tony leapt over the pit, sprinting for the ice -- and the third step he took, the ice splintered and cracked and bowed under his feet, forcing him to a halt. “Bucky!” He turned, reached out beseechingly. “Clint, help us!”

“Lay down,” Clint yelled. He took several running steps and threw himself onto the ice, sliding across.

“He’s right,” Brother Steven said. “Distribute your weight on the ice. I’ve got a rope, here, take it, take it.”

Tony knew that, he _knew_ it, but his thoughts were too full of Bucky to order themselves. He laid on the ice, stretching out, and crawled, squirming like a snake or a worm toward the hole. “Bucky!” He reached the edge and plunged his arm into the freezing water, groping.

Bucky surfaced, yelping in distress, and Tony snatched at his paws, trying to pull Bucky up onto the ice. “I’m here, I’m here,” he promised, “Sweetheart, you can do it, come on--”

Bucky was too heavy for Tony to pull him out. And every time the wolf bobbed back under the surface, he dragged Tony a little closer.

“I’ve got the rope,” Clint said. “Hold him-- dear God, this is so _stupid--_ ” He took a couple of rapid breaths and then let himself slide into the water with the wild, terrified wolf, struggling to wrap a rope around the beast’s chest. “ _Fuck_!” he yelled when he came up for air, “that’s cold.”

“The rope!” Tony urged. He tried to reach for Bucky, to help hold the poor creature still so Clint could harness it. A hand closed on his ankle and Tony looked back to see Steve, anchoring them all. Steve nodded at him once, solemnly, and Tony whirled back to try to help Clint, to calm Bucky. “Come on, it’s okay, it’s going to be okay,” he promised.

“I’ve got it, I’ve got--” Clint screamed as the wolf turned on him, paws scrabbling for purchase against the thief’s fragile skin, pushing him under.

“Clint!” Tony lunged further forward, groping under the water with both arms. He could barely feel anything, the water was so cold and numbing, but his fingers snagged on something that might have been cloth, and he pulled with all his strength.

Clint surfaced, pushing Bucky up. Brother Steven yanked on the rope. The wolf moved, breaking pieces of the ice away, yelping. Finally, after what seemed hours and was probably only a few moments, the ice stopped breaking, and Bucky crawled up onto it, whining. The wolf buried his huge snout in Tony’s clothes, moaning piteously.

“Oh, shut up, you big baby,” Clint said, sounding oddly fond. “I’m just as cold and wet as you are, you don’t see me acting like a great giant puppy, do you?”

Tony wrapped both arms around Bucky’s head and sobbed in relief, then reached out to catch Clint’s hand, squeezing it in gratitude. “I have to believe now,” he said between gasps of freezing air. “I cannot believe that God is merely mocking us as we go to our doom.” He looked up at Steve. “We’re in your hands, now.”

“I’m never sure that God doesn’t have a wicked sense of humor,” Clint said. “After all, He did make hangovers and early mornings along with such lovely things like roast lamb with mint jelly.”

Tony laughed weakly, one hand still fisted in Bucky’s fur. “And He sent us you to be our champion.”

“Right, just what I said. A real jester, God.”

* * *

There were a few moments, at sunrise and sunset, where Bucky could _feel_ the transformation. To have the mind of a man and the body of a beast at the same time. He opened his eyes and looked-- he didn’t know where he was, but it didn’t matter, because Tony was right there, right across from him, still a man, sleeping and beautiful.

Tony’s eyes fluttered open an instant later and then widened as he saw Bucky, obviously recognizing the human intelligence that was watching him through wolfish eyes.

“Bucky,” he breathed, and reached out--

\--the frantic beating of the hawk’s wings carried it up into the sky.

Bucky screamed, rage and grief and aching loneliness. He hadn’t seen Tony’s face for _years_ , and to have only that one moment...

He used the snow to cool his grief, then pulled on the clothes that Tony no longer needed and turned to find Widow.

“This is unexpected,” he said. Widow was there, annoyed as always. But so were Clint and Steve and Steve’s donkey. And a campfire and a wagon. Just as nice and cozy as if nothing had ever happened. Bucky sighed, finished getting dressed. He reached for his sword-- “Where is it?”

“...Ah.” Clint rolled to his feet. “It was lost. In the ice.”

“What?” He gave serious consideration to actually finishing the job of damning himself and throttling Clint with his bare hands. “You lost my father’s sword? I needed that sword to kill the Bishop!”

“Well, I’m sorry!” Clint said, stepping back out of reach. “I’d undo it if I could, but I can’t. It’s gone. So your quest is pointless now. No grand jewel to decorate a sword you can never show your beloved. No meaningless death, sacrificing yourself for revenge. So you might as well try his way.” He pointed at Steve. “It’s a _chance_ , Captain, don’t you see? A chance at _life_. With Tony by your side instead of on your wrist!”

“I can find another sword,” Bucky said. Why, why, why was everything so hard? It should be simple; despite everything, Killian was only a man. He could be killed. If his head came away from his neck, it would all be over. And yet everything Bucky tried to hold onto was crumbling. The sword was the last bit of honor he possessed. Maybe it was better to let it go. To embrace his destiny as a murderer.

“Bucky, stop,” Steve said. “Will you please just-- Tony agreed with us! He thinks it--” Bucky wasn’t listening, he couldn’t hear. Nothing Steve said made sense, it was just noise and nonsense, the drunken ramblings of an idiot.

“Get out of my way, Clint.”

“No, Captain, you need to listen! It can work!” Clint stepped sideways, blocking Bucky’s path as he tried to go around. “Will you kill him with this pointless quest?” he demanded. “Kill both of you? Is that what you want? Your revenge is more important than Tony’s life?”

Bucky shoved out, blindly, full of rage like an animal that had been pushed too far, and Clint stumbled backward, falling into the snow. When he hit the ground, the thief cried out, not in shock, but in actual pain.

His shirt, half undone, showed off a thin chest, raked with deep wounds, barely scabbed over. One of them had opened a little in the fall and a trickle of blood ran down his skin.

Bucky’s rage vanished as if he’d dumped a bucket of water on it. “What-- what is that?” He was sickly certain that he knew the answer.

“It’s nothing.” Clint jerked his shirt closed and rolled away. He scrambled to his feet and turned away, going to tend the fire.

“It happened last night,” Steve said softly. “When he pulled you out of the ice.”

Bucky was stunned. Clint could have been _killed_ ; he was certain to bear those scars for his entire life. And Bucky had treated him so very badly. He didn’t deserve such sacrifice. He didn’t deserve-- He raised his eyes, looking at Clint. He didn’t deserve such a friend. “Forgive me.”

“I can’t.” Bucky had half a moment to feel stunned and hurt and shamed, and then Clint grinned at him. “How could I? I’m a commoner, a thief, a nobody. It’s not my place to forgive you.”

“You’re certainly not common. And not nobody. You are noble and brave and true. Your own mother doesn’t know you as well as I do,” Bucky said. “You may well be the best friend I have ever had, even when I did nothing to deserve your regard.”

“My own mother doesn’t know me at all,” Clint said. “She died when I was just a baby. And I... I’ve never had a friend before.” He smiled at Bucky with something like wonder.

Bucky extended his hand, and was beyond relieved when Clint took it. It wasn’t enough, the feel of Clint’s warm palm, the half-incredulous, half-embarrassed look on the thief’s face. He pulled Clint in for a hug, gentle as he could out of respect for the man’s wounds. He turned his head and pressed his lips to Clint’s ear. “Thank you. For my life. For my sanity.” He heaved a breath.

He’d lost this round; his pride was as battered as the rest of him. But he had a friend. And they-- they had certainly believed _something_ , to go through so much trouble. To risk so much. Bucky had to give something back. He could give them one more day, at least.

“Let me show you two idiots how to cage a wolf,” he offered.


	12. A Day Without a Night

The train of wagons made their way slowly up toward Aquila. There weren’t lots of occasions in which the gates were open for so long, or that so many people were going in and out. But the Bishop was holding the annual confessions of the clergy. 

For most people, pious and sincere and far more afraid of hell than they were of the Bishop, it would not have seemed like a power-grab. But the Bishop fished for information, delicate and dangerous. He would use blackmail material given to him willingly by parish priests, and deploy it against his enemies.

And if you didn’t tell him something he wanted to hear, well. You were making yourself an enemy.

Almost exactly six years ago to the date. Steve hadn’t known better. Not at the time. He was young and enthusiastic and filled with devotion. He’d practically been vibrating out of the confession bench, excited to be able to share the deeds and goings on of his parish with someone as important as the Bishop, someone so close to God.

It was all he could do now, not to hate himself for how naive he’d been.

His Grace had gone mad when Steve had told him; it was a simple story, not even that much of a scandal. The orphaned son of a merchant, eloping with one of the Bishop’s captains. It should have been considered adorable, not _wicked_.

Steve had his entire world upended when he witnessed the Bishop-- saw Killian call directly upon the powers of Satan.

He’d never known such evil could exist in the world, much less in the hands of the very man supposed to carry their words to God, supposed to protect them from Hell and damnation.

“You should get ready,” he murmured. Tony was sitting next to him, dressed as a monk, a hood pulled up over his head. Clint, the cunning little thief, was in the back of the wagon, wearing not much at all and carrying his clothes in a waxed leather package. He was going to have to go swimming in the moat, and it was cold enough that another night of being in wet clothes might actually kill him.

Tony twisted around in his seat and reached out a hand to clasp Clint’s. “Be careful,” he urged. “We need you.”

Clint offered a jaunty, devil-may-care grin that Steve suspected hid more than a little of his true feelings. “Like a briar in a horse’s tail, m’lord, you won’t be free of me so easily.” He nodded to Steve, and then as they passed a thick hedge, he rolled into the shadows of the bushes, disappearing so utterly that even knowing he was there, Steve couldn’t see him.

“You have a gift,” Steve said to Tony as he clucked at the reins and got the mule moving again. 

“Me?” Tony glanced at the cluster of guards at the gate to the city and pulled his hood lower over his face.

“It seems like one has only to see your face, to fall in love,” Steve gestured, not quite at Clint, but where he thought Clint had gone.

Tony hummed. “Perhaps it would have been better, then, if I had not been so gifted. Without it, I would not be caught in the snare of this curse.”

Sometimes, Steve thought he should join the Silent Brotherhood and take a vow never to speak again and that was certainly the case a few minutes later when one of the gate guards snatched Tony’s hood off his head with a “what have we here?” and a lewd stare.

Tony barely had time to gasp before Bucky was on four feet and snarling at the guard from the cage in the back of the wagon. He sounded as if he was preparing to claw his way out of the wood and sinew bars and start gnawing on someone’s insides.

“A gift for his Grace,” Steve announced, not bothering the mention which one was the gift, Tony or Bucky. He then added, “a fine pelt for his wall, or a rug for the fire, don’t you think?”

The guard drew his short, brutal sword. “I’ve never killed a wolf before,” he said gleefully. Tony’s eyes got bigger and he stared at Steve beseechingly.

“What a coincidence,” Steve said. “That’s exactly what his Grace said, when I told him about the gift. Never killed a wolf before. But I’m sure he will forgive you for denying him that small pleasure. Very forgiving man, his Grace.”

The guard squinted at Steve suspiciously for a moment, then stuffed his sword back into its sheath. “Go on with ye, then.”

Steve didn’t need to be told twice. “Wisdom is a blessing from God, my son. Be grateful that you have it.” 

“Your gift,” Tony murmured, “is getting people to believe you.”

“That’s a simple understanding of human nature,” Steve said. “People believe a lie because they want it to be true. Or because they’re afraid it _is_ true.”

The city was full of people, stuffed into every inn and lodging. 

But Bucky and Tony had known a place, and things hadn’t changed. The little garden behind the monastery was still abandoned. Uncared for in the last few years, it was oddly full of winter roses and mint and other herbs, smelling sweet and looking more like a haven than anything Steve had seen in years.

“I’m sorry if this place has painful memories,” Steve said. “But I thought we would be well hidden, here.”

“All memories are painful memories,” Tony said softly, sliding down from the wagon’s seat to cup a hand around a pale rose. “At least these are leavened with some sweetness.”

Steve went around the back of the wagon and undid the fastenings that held the door closed. Bucky wouldn’t wander off. Not in this city full of people and noise. Probably. Not, Steve thought idly, that a vengeful monster didn’t deserve to have sway in the city, but the guards would probably be able to kill off one lone wolf, no matter how big and how smart he was. “He won’t leave, will he?”

“No.” Tony sat in the middle of a patch of winter-brown grass and held out his hand, beckoning to Bucky. The great wolf eyed him, shook its head vigorously, and sneezed, then padded over to push its muzzle up under Tony’s hand like a dog begging for a treat.

Steve found a place to sit that wasn’t quite on the ground. Bucky was large, and sort of terrifying even if he did act like a giant puppy sometimes. He thought it might have been the remains of a bird bath. “I… I didn’t know,” Steve admitted. “I didn’t know-- I didn’t want this to happen. I didn’t tell the bishop out of some malice, or spite, or because I was jealous. Even if I was. I didn’t know how he felt about you, or what he would do to have you. It never even occurred to me that he would care, except that-- what I’m trying to say, badly, I admit. I’m sorry. I never meant any of this to happen to you, and while I think God has forgiven me for being foolish and blind, I understand if you can’t.”

Tony scratched at Bucky’s ears thoughtfully for a moment. “When you have lived as I have, in a world of darkness, lit only by the moon and the stars, your vision changes. You come to see things that you never thought to see. To recognize things that before were only shadows, looming and terrible. I know you never meant us ill. And if I was angry at first -- for quite some time, I admit -- I’m not a creature that thrives on revenge.” He smiled a little and petted Bucky’s muzzle until the wolf snapped at him for it. “Not like this one. That burden is too heavy for my heart. This will be finished soon, one way or another, and I can’t go into that moment of reckoning with anything but a clean slate. For whatever it is worth, I forgive you. You, too, have endured what no man should be forced to endure.”

“It will,” Steve said. “It’s almost over. By tomorrow night, I will be toasting your happiness and watching you both dance. Or even, all three, as I daresay you’re very unlikely to get rid of your thief with any degree of gracefulness.”

Tony smiled a little. “I’m not sure I want to get rid of him. He’d make a good balance for Bucky’s grumpiness, don’t you think?” He curled his hands in Bucky’s thick, snowy fur. “What do you think, my love? Shall we keep our pet thief?”

Bucky made a sound somewhat close to a guard dog that’s been told it needs a bath and objects strenuously.

Steve smiled, thought maybe he shouldn’t, and tried to hide it behind his hand, but Tony laughed, practically falling backward onto the wolf. It was nice, somehow. Nice to think maybe, not only would Tony and Bucky get back their lives, their human lives that they were meant to have, but that Steve would, could be, forgiven. That he might get his friends back.

He knew as a member of the clergy that he was supposed to give most of his love to God, but it was a cold, distant sort of love, and friends… well, it was just different, and Steve didn’t see why he could not have friends.

Obviously if God didn’t prevent Killian from his sins, He was unlikely to chastise Steve for having a few friends, right?

* * *

Clint had thought it was bad, making his way over the rooftops and through the canals when it was light outside, and not quite the dead of winter. It was much, much worse doing it the other way, in the middle of the night. Starting his trip wet and smelly was not exactly fun, pulling on clothes while crouched on a rooftop, and then making his way across town while trying not to fall through ill-repaired shingles or wake anyone sleeping below him.

Way, way worse.

And while he wasn’t exactly not in fear for his life -- he would die just as fast if the guards caught him -- he wasn’t _escaping_ , which had given him a certain impetus the first time around.

No, this time he was voluntarily going into the lion’s den.

Sometimes he was positive that everything in his life was a giant joke to God. He was God’s idea of a puppet show, something fun and ridiculous to watch when He was bored.

“I hope You appreciate the show,” Clint muttered, wriggling into a pair of hose that didn’t fit particularly well, and was difficult to pull over wet legs. At least he was warmer once he was dressed.

The clouds didn’t break, and there wasn’t much light from the streets. Lamp oil was expensive and torches were smelly.

Well, no sense waiting forever. 

He got a good running start and leaped over to the next building, rolling when his hands hit the slate. Not too loud, although he heard something fall in the alley below. Stray dog that he’d startled, maybe. Two more streets up, three more jumps and he paused to rest. 

At least he could rest this time, he didn’t have to run-rabbit until he could barely stand up, was seeing spots, and felt like puking his guts up. He waited until his heart settled.

“I don’t know why, Lord, You thought I was a good fit for this adventure,” he complained.

God didn’t answer him. He almost never did.

And even when the clouds broke -- Clint could see the stars, even if he didn’t know anything about them, not even their names -- there was no moon. Starlight did not help much for seeing.

He pushed a board across from one roof to another and scuttled across; it was too far for jumping, but at least there was construction material available.

The wall was manned, and he found himself a good hide, listening to the guards. They were slacking in their jobs, chatting near one of the fires. 

They were complaining of the post, how cold it was, how late the shift. Clint knew the type; if they’d been posted to an indoor station they’d be complaining of the heat, and a daytime post would make them grumble about a delayed meal.

One bitched about his lady’s expensive tastes. The other countered with the cost of visiting a brothel. They commisserated for a time about the food shortages, even though neither of them looked particularly hungry. They moved on to discussing their frustration with the bishop having commandeered all the wine in the city for the coming ceremonies.

Finally, they recalled that they had jobs to do and a merciless captain, and they parted ways to walk their respective stretches of the wall.

“Lord, help me remember not to be so boring, if I ever have a real job,” Clint muttered, but then he was past the guard station and finding finger and toeholds in the side of the Cathedral. The only way in was going to be through the roof. There must be doors and ladders for the bell ringers, and Clint doubted that they were as observant as the guards. (Not to mention the fact that the guards hadn’t caught him, so that was good, right?)

The side of the cathedral was rough-hewn stone, and while Clint had certainly had easier climbs, it wasn’t a particular challenge, aside from the need to push onward in defiance of the extremely sensible portion of his brain that was insisting that what he was doing was stupidity of the highest order and that he should turn around and run as far and as fast as he could.

The bell tower was unoccupied, as expected for this time of night -- the bells would not ring again until the dawn call to service. There was an open trapdoor with a ladder leading down into the building - an access hatch for whomever it was that polished the bells and kept the ropes in good order.

The tricky bit was going to be finding somewhere to wait out the rest of the night. Close to the main entrance, but not so close as to be seen. Somewhere he could-- oh, look, caretaker robes ready to head to the laundry. Useful. He grabbed one. “Thank You, Lord,” he murmured. Breaking into God’s church. Well, he had to assume God didn’t mind, or there would have been lightning strikes or plagues of locusts or _something_. Still, he should make sure to note every time that God came to his assistance. He wouldn’t want God to change His mind.

Now-- where was someplace that he was unlikely to be noticed, and yet would be close enough to slip out toward the entrance and open it to let Bucky in?

Maybe the little hallway just off the side of the organ? Only the organist would mount those stairs. He tucked himself into a dark nook, settled to the floor, and prepared to wait.

He didn’t mean to fall asleep, but-- really, with Tony to take care of at night and Bucky to watch after during the day, Clint had been getting shorted sleep all over the place.

“Boy. Boy!” Something prodded him sharply in the leg, and Clint snapped awake to find a young acolyte carrying a wooden bucket and poking him with the end of a scrubbing-brush. “I don’t know where you’re supposed to be, but it’s not here. You’d better run along before you get into trouble.”

That was putting it mildly, Clint thought. He pulled the robe closer down over his head. It wasn’t like anyone really noticed cleaning servants and lamp lighters. He gave the acolyte a quick nod and then dashed off, following his nose. There wasn’t much in the way of breakfast for the Bishop’s staff, some porridge and a lump of cheese, but hey, free food was free, and there was something satisfying about eating off Killian’s florin, so to speak. He followed the example of the others, holding his bowl close to his chest and finding a quiet corner to eat in -- there weren’t many tables and all of them were occupied by people who might notice that they’d never seen Clint before.

He dropped his bowl in the bin for later cleaning, grabbed a broom, and wandered off. He left the broom behind a pew. 

The doors were open and the clergy were slowly filtering in. Clint mingled, then found a place to stand out of the way. No one seemed to notice him. He found himself looking down at one of the columns in the chapel.

A ring of carved wolves circled the pillar, staring up-- Clint’s gaze jerked upward until he saw the matching falcons at the top of the pillar.

Well, that wasn’t creepy at all.

The last of the clergy entered and the guards closed the gate, locking it.

Time to get to work.

Clint let himself drift backward in the church until he was near the gate. The Bishop entered and the service began.

No one was looking at him.

He pulled his lockpick out and, keeping his face attentively toward the altar, began fiddling the lock behind his back. It shouldn’t be that complicated; they weren’t trying to keep people _in_.

* * *

The streets weren’t really deserted; there were shopkeepers and housewives going about their business. The regular church services were delayed for the special service for the clergy. Really, the service for the people wasn’t much. The Bishop would come out to the window overlooking the courtyard, murmur a blessing, and watch the poor trickle out, giving over their tithe and having his guards pull aside anyone who didn’t tithe enough.

It might have been nice, Bucky thought, to execute the Bishop exactly at that moment. To cut off Killian’s head and have it bounce down among the people.

But, while dramatic and appropriate and quite possibly enough to quench some of Bucky’s rage, it really wasn’t feasible.

They moved closer to the church until Steve found an alley to leave his wagon. Tony perched on the top, rustling his wings from time to time.

Nothing seemed any different than it ever had. Day was still day. Night was still night.

Steve didn’t seem perturbed; he just climbed into the back of the wagon and started rustling through the bags, looking for clothes for Tony.

“Clint should be close by,” Bucky said. He peeked out the mouth of the alley, but the front of the cathedral was still tightly sealed. “I will go as soon as the doors open. You can bring Tony along as soon as this perfect moment of yours happens.”

Bucky still didn’t think he believed in the perfect moment. The moment where the curse _could be_ broken.

“You should wait. Go in together,” Steve suggested. He was laying out a neatly-folded tunic and hose.

“The Bishop’s guards aren’t likely to just stand aside and let us stroll in,” Bucky said. He shifted a little. The sword he’d gotten to replace his father’s blade rode uneasily in its scabbard. There was nothing special about it. It would do an adequate job of stabbing people, though, so that was all Bucky really cared about. “And Tony is no warrior. I will feel better if I thin the ranks a little.”

Not to mention if he waited, he might miss his opportunity all together. Clint couldn’t hold the doors open for long.

“If…” Bucky paused, squinted up at the sky. The sun, behind clouds, like always. “Uh, Clint’s to leave as soon as I come inside. He knows this. So I will ask you-- if I should fail. Please tell Clint how sorry I am for everything, and how much his friendship means to me. To Tony. And-- I would very much appreciate it if he would honor my dying wish. To take care of Tony, keep him free from the Bishop’s clutches. If I fall.”

He knew what that probably meant; that Clint and Tony would end up together-- at least with one of them human all the time, they might be able to make it to Rome, to get protection. Clint would be able to find a home and stay in one place. Tony would be able to have some sort of life.

He found the image of the two of them, married, content, together. Did not fill him with rage and jealousy. Clint cared about Tony as a person, he would take care of Tony. And Bucky would be dead.

Steve was watching him with a too-knowing gaze, as if he could see what Bucky was thinking. “I have faith in you,” he said. “But if it helps you to have my word, then you have it. If you fall, I shall give Tony over into Clint’s keeping.”

“Tony had faith in me, and look what that coin bought,” Bucky said. “It is far past time that I proved worthy of it.” He put his helmet on, leaving the visor up. He had some vague hope that there might be some in the guard who still knew him, who would still call him Captain, and maybe would not make him wade through a river of blood before he reached his goal.

“Tony’s faith has not yet been disproven,” Steve argued, but he stepped aside and let Bucky bring Widow around to mount up. “We will be there, when the moment arrives.”


	13. A Night Without a Day

The whispers passed from the guards to the people as Bucky kept a steady hand on Widow’s reins. The mare pranced, shaking out her mane, shifting from hoof to hoof. Anyone who didn’t know her might think she was nervous, but instead, she was feeling Bucky’s battle-readiness and was just waiting for some idiot to get in her way so that she could trample him.

Bucky kept his visor up, letting people see his face.

Slowly, the whispers grew until the crowd around the cathedral was thick.

But no one raised a blade to stop him.

The guards, as they were bound to by duty, formed up in his path.

“As your captain once, and by God’s grace, shall be again,” Bucky said, no, demanded, _ordered_. His voice was firm and strong and steady. “I ask you to let me pass. I’ve no wish to harm you.”

There was some muttering, a few nervous glances, but then one of them moved, and then all of them, pushing to the edges of the road and making a path for Bucky to ride through.

Bucky saluted them, and smacked his visor down. He didn’t want anyone to witness the way tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. Up the stairs-- Clint should be opening the door at any moment. He let Widow set the pace; a few trotting steps at a time, her hoofbeats ringing against the marble.

The door finally opened, which was good, since Bucky didn’t really want to look stupid hanging out around the outside like a beggar. Widow surged forward, pushing the door the rest of the way open with her hooves, screaming as she reared and plunged.

Clint was already scrambling out of the way, and the one guard close enough to have harmed him was cut down as Bucky rode by. “Get clear!” he yelled to Clint as he rode by.

The clergy scattered, screaming and scrambling to get out of the way. Although they didn’t go any further than they had to, Bucky noticed. Didn’t want to miss the fun.

“Killian!”

Killian stared at him as if he were seeing a ghost, wide-eyed and unmoving.

The clatter of hooves on the stone floor echoed from behind him. “Barnes,” snarled Rumlow’s voice. “I’d offer you the chance to surrender, but I won’t waste our time.” He slapped his own vision down and lifted his sword.

Oh, for God’s sake, would this never be over? Killing Rumlow was a waste of time. Time he didn’t have. The more Rumlow delayed him, the more time Killian would have to squirm away like the snake he was.

But the Bishop didn’t move, didn’t even look away, as if this were all some vast entertainment. A spectacle.

“We were friends once,” Bucky snarled and he blocked the swing, feeling the way Rumlow’s sword rattled into his bones.

Rumlow parried his return. “You keep telling yourself that, Barnes,” he said, laughing harshly.

Bucky glanced at the Bishop again, but Killian hadn’t moved. Well, then. “You think God is going to save you? Do you think He’s on your side?” He watched the clergy scurry out of the way like rats, but his attention was given more and more over to the danger immediately in front of him. It seemed that there was always one more obstacle, one more moment. One more hurdle.

God wasn’t on Bucky’s side either.

Killian stood straight and tall, his only sign of distress the way his knuckles whitened as they clenched at his staff. But he still didn’t say anything.

Rumlow brought his horse around and lashed out with a wild swing. “You should’ve stayed in the countryside,” he taunted. “You’re a creature not made for the city.”

“I was born here,” Bucky yelled. “I was raised to be who I am. Whatever Killian’s promised you, whatever lies he told. You know this _isn’t right_. He’s destroying the city. Like a plague.”

“Do you think I care?” Rumlow snatched up one of the elegant censers that lined the hall and threw it at Bucky, flinging the burning incense and smoke toward Bucky’s face.

“You should--” Bucky blocked it, smelled the stink of it as it hit the ground, setting the expensive rug to smoldering. “You swore an oath, Rumlow, to these people.” He swung, again and again, battering at Rumlow’s sword. No grace, no elegance, just sheer rage. “You swore an oath. Oathbreaker. Murderer. _Liar_.”

“My oath is to His Grace,” Rumlow growled. “I’m not the oathbreaker here.” He lunged at Bucky again, ducking the sword and dragging them both off their mounts to fall on the floor, wrestling like common brawlers.

“Your oath--” Bucky swung again. “ _Was to God_.”

The sword he was carrying, the cheap replacement, snapped, sending a piece of metal spinning into the crowd. Rumlow punched him, knocking him to the floor.

No, no, he was not going to lose now. Not now when he was so close.

Rumlow dragged off his visor as he climbed to his feet, his sword leveled at Bucky’s chest. He smirked. “Should’ve stayed in the woods,” he taunted.

“Kill him!” Killian demanded.

Bucky ripped his helmet off and flung it at his enemy. He missed. Rather impressively, really, flinging it wildly. It tumbled up and up. Further than, really, it should have gone, and Bucky gaped at it as it struck the beautiful stained glass window, raining down a shower of jagged glass. Rumlow was forced to retreat under that deadly hail.

But not for long--

* * *

Tony opened his eyes on the strangest twilight he’d ever seen, the color all wrong, the shadows not long and soft but sharp and oddly deformed. He whirled around, looking to the west -- but the sun’s light was not there.

He followed its path upward as the last of the shadows faded to see the sun high overhead -- but covered by a black disk, the barest amount of light peeking from its edges.

“A night without a day,” he murmured in wonder.

“Hurry!” Steve gasped, all but throwing clothes at Tony.

Tony dragged the pants on quickly. “Where is he?”

“The cathedral, of course, the fool.”

The sound of running footsteps seemed loud in this strange not-night-not-day, and Tony and Steve both whirled around to see Clint all but throwing himself through the garden gate.

“Oh, good,” Clint said, and he scrambled underneath the wagon. “We’re on a schedule here!” He was grumbling, rolled over, pulled his knife. “Damn knots.”

“What are you doing?” Tony wondered, even as he dragged the shirt over his head. No time to tie the collar; who knew how long this miracle would last?

“The Captain needs a special sword to kill the bishop,” Clint said, dragging the Barnes’ family heirloom out from under the wagon. “I thought it would delay him. And then I was pissed off. Come on, come on, let’s go, are-- come on then, let’s go! Oh my God.”

Clint was already rushing back toward the cathedral. Tony glanced at Steve.

“Let’s go,” Steve said urgently.

“Going!” Tony ran.

How many dozens of months, hundreds of days since Tony’s feet had touched the streets of Aquila? It was much as he remembered it -- and much changed. The people were leaner, hungrier, more suspicious. Killian was starving them in his greed.

He had to be stopped, even if it meant that Tony and Bucky would be cursed forever. But maybe, just maybe-- Tony glanced up at the blank spot where the sun should be, running through streets as dark as any night. Maybe they had a chance.

“The Captain is fighting with --” Clint gasped for breath, “the other captain, the new one. We--” _better get there in time_ , Clint could have finished, but he didn’t. “Don’t distract him.”

The wide plaza in front of the cathedral was packed with people, crowding around to peer into the building.

“Move!” Steve bellowed, and a startled gaggle of townsfolk shifted, just enough for Steve to push through, pulling Clint and Tony in his wake.

Clint bolted for the door, dragging the sword behind him. “Captain! Captain!” He ran to the edge of the fight. Bucky had no sword, he was barely being able to stay out of Rumlow’s grasp.

Tony’s breath caught at the sight of his beloved, stronger and fiercer and more beautiful than Tony had ever dreamt. He had to catch the side of the door with his hand to keep himself upright. _Bucky_. “I can die now,” he whispered. “I’ve seen him again.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Steve said in his ear. “You can _live_ , now you’ve seen him again.”

Rumlow kicked Bucky over, knocking him to the ground. “Now you will die,” Rumlow promised, stabbing downward. 

“No--” Tony staggered forward a few steps, helpless to stop it and wholly unable to stay away.

Bucky rolled first in toward Rumlow, then out, pinning the tip of his sword and yanking it out of his grasp. He reached, and Clint shoved the sword at him. Like some sort of miracle, some gift of God, the hilt slid across the floor, right into Bucky’s hand. As if he’d called it there by will alone. Rumlow lurched forward and Bucky surged up.

The sword of the Barnes’ family’s ancestors went through the new Captain like a stick into water. Bucky paused, breathing hard, and then kicked Rumlow off his blade.

“And now you,” he said, turning to face the bishop. “Now you.”

For an instant, Tony thought to just let it happen. Killian deserved to die, not only for what he’d done to Tony and Bucky, but to all the people of the city.

But _no_. The curse, if it was to be broken, required Killian to live. At least some few moments longer.

“Bucky!” Tony called. “Bucky, stop!”

Bucky went so still, motionless, not even blinking, that Tony wondered if the curse would break in some other, terrible way. And then Bucky was turning toward him. “Tony? Oh, my God--” He opened his arms, welcoming and warm and joyous in a way that Tony could only remember from those few days of bliss, so long ago. “Tony-- Tony my love.”

“Sweetheart,” Tony breathed. “Bucky, my darling--” He ran, and Bucky met him at the center of the great hall, swinging him up into Bucky’s strong arms, an embrace Tony hadn’t known for too, too long. He threw his head back and laughed as Bucky spun them around.

“Go, you idiots,” Clint hissed, waving at them. “He’s got to _look at you._ ”

Killian wasn’t looking at them, Tony realized. He was standing there, shaking like a leaf, but he wasn’t looking. He had his eyes closed, his head bent. 

How much time, before the sun came back out, before Tony turned back into the bird he’d been these last half dozen years? Not much time at all, if Killian could keep his eyes closed through it. If he thought there was even a chance.

“Look at me,” Bucky yelled, his voice powerful, furious. Commanding. He took Tony’s hand and strode forward, sword out. “Look! Damn you, look at me.” 

Killian crumbled to his knees, but seemed helpless against the rage in Bucky’s voice.

“Look at Tony. Look at him.”

“So beautiful,” Killian said, and there was that look, that longing ache that Tony had always hated, the way Killian looked at Tony like he was a prize that Killian meant to win. An object that he only wanted so much because someone told him that he couldn’t have it.

 _That someone,_ Tony thought _, was me._

He stared back at Killian coldly. “I would never have been yours,” he told the false bishop. “Even if Bucky hadn’t captured my heart. I would have died before allowing you to _collect_ me like so much sparkling trash.”

“And now,” Bucky said, drawing his sword back, pulling Tony to his side. “Look at us. Together. Human. Like we’re supposed to be. _**Look at us!**_ ”

Somehow, he would have thought a curse breaking would have been more dramatic.

The moon slid away from the sun. Sunlight spun down into the cathedral, and it touched Tony’s skin like a blessing.

He couldn’t bear to let go of Bucky, but he reached with his free hand, marveling at the shine of sunlight on his skin.

Killian stood, glared. He moved, toeing off the cap end of his staff, revealing a deadly blade. “If I cannot have you, no man shall!”

“Tony!” 

“Bucky, watch him--”

Bucky lunged, his sword leaving his hand like a javelin. It slid through the bishop and pinned him to the altar.

For just a moment, something seemed to close around Killian’s body, dark and dangerous, like a whiff of smoke. 

“Anthony--” Killian murmured, reaching for him. He groaned painfully, and when his breath left him, he did not draw in another one.

Tony stared at the dead man without pity or remorse. Killian had gone to his reward, and Tony hoped that Satan would make Killian feel all the pain that Bucky and Tony had felt, these last years, and all the pain that he’d put the people of Aquila through, and more besides.

He turned his back on Killian to look up into Bucky’s face. “Bucky,” he repeated in wonder.

“Tony. Oh, my God, Tony, look at you--” Bucky marveled. He pulled Tony in, a tight, heated embrace. “You’re real, you’re here, oh, love, I never thought--” He pulled off his gloves to touch Tony’s face, cradling it, one thumb running down the skin behind Tony’s ear. “I love you, oh, Tony, love you so much.”

“I’m here,” Tony agreed, “and I love you, and--” Words were utterly insufficient. Tony threw his arms around Bucky’s neck and stretched onto his toes for a kiss, like a cup of water after struggling through the desert.

That act, carnal though it may have been in its small way, felt more blessed, more holy, than any falsely pious sermon the bishop had conducted in this space.

Out of the corner of Tony’s eye, he saw Clint and Steve, watching them from one of the pillars. Clint tugged on Steve’s sleeve, jerking his chin back toward the door. Time to leave, that gesture said. 

Tony pulled away. “Clint!” he called. “Steven!” He held out his hand, beckoning them nearer.

“Don’t let me step on your moment,” Clint said, then gave up as Tony frowned at him. “It’s good to see you, my lord, in the day time.”

“It’s very good to be seen,” Tony said. He kept reaching until Clint gave in and took his hand, letting Tony pull him into the embrace. “We couldn’t have done it without you,” he murmured. “We owe you a great debt.”

“More than we can ever repay,” Bucky said, drawing Clint even closer into the embrace. “A truer, more beloved friend, we could never have.” Bucky took advantage of the way Clint was blushing and staring, like he’d done nothing at all, to kiss the man’s cheeks, then his forehead, and then his mouth, very lightly. “What are you even thinking of, sneaking away?”

The look at Clint shot at Tony, terrified and infatuated, as if he was afraid of being abandoned, but at the same time, clinging to some thought of independence. “My lord?” Or maybe he expected Tony to slap him for Bucky’s kiss.

“You are ours,” Tony decided. “We’re not giving you up so easily.” He leaned up to kiss Clint’s cheek. “I told you he liked you,” he whispered.

“And you, Steven,” Bucky said. “I… I never thought that I would bless the day that God gave you back to us.”

Steve turned scarlet in the face and spluttered. “Well, you were meant to be together,” he said. “Not even God would stand in the way of that for too long.”

“Moment,” Clint said. He kissed Tony’s cheek, and then Bucky’s. Then he dashed over to the Bishop’s body, pulling Bucky’s sword free of the corpse. “And a ring, doesn’t he have a ring-- ah, there we go. My Lord, that is one big honking jewel. You were supposed to be a man of God, not a man of gold.” He tugged the ring off, and then brought both his prizes back to them. “You need me. You’d forget everything important if someone wasn’t looking after you properly.”

“Well, then it’s a good thing we found you,” Tony said. He tucked his free arm through Clint’s, and glanced over to be certain Bucky had hold of Steve, and the four of them moved in near-unison, a procession down the long hall as the clergy and half the city looked on in wonder, leaving Killian behind and stepping out, at last, into the light of day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a wrap on this story!
> 
> If you're a regular follower of our Sunday stories as well, then you already know that, unfortunately, this is going to be the last of the regular Tuesday updates for... an indefinite amount of time. Thursday I'll post a Sandbridge short story that we wrote a few months back and then sort of forgot about, and... then I've run out of fics that tisfan and I finished before her stroke, and I expect it will be a matter of months, at minimum, before she's able to write again, even slowly.
> 
> I will, of course, continue to sporadically post my solo writings as they're ready, but I'm going to miss these regular postings. We've gotten to know any number of our regular readers through comments, and I want you to know that every single comment and kudo has made us smile, since we started posting _Winter is Coming_ back in November of 2016. Four years (and a couple of months) of regular posts, three times a week -- it's quite the accomplishment, and we're both extremely glad to have had you all with us for even part of that journey.
> 
> I am both hopeful and confident that tisfan will continue to recover and get stronger, and that she will, eventually, be ready to write again. If you're as hopeful for that moment as I am, be sure you're subscribed to both of us, and feel free to drop me a line on tumblr (27dragons) or discord (27dragons#2243) any time.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was co-written by 27dragons and tisfan. It is complete and one chapter will be posted every Tuesday and Thursday until it is done.
> 
> Unfortunately, tisfan suffered a major medical misadventure in late September and, as of this posting, is in a long-term physical therapy facility and unable to read or type (and therefore is unable to log in and accept co-authorship). She is expected to return eventually, but so far the doctors aren't able to estimate a time frame for that (probably months or even longer). Anyone who would like to leave a note for tisfan can add it to the bottom of [this document](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1EdkWsokcaUSnQ7i9proJiuzR30L-WVHgGx4pwKj6GH0/edit?usp=sharing) \- new messages are periodically given to Mr. Tisfan to read to her (and the whole thing is being saved for her when she's able to get back online again).


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